Crashing Into You
by Kyra4
Summary: Oh, just your basic J/G angsty, rocky romance fic ; Now COMPLETE! "She wanted to let go; to let herself drift away. And true to form, if it was something she wanted, Gunther was bound and determined to thwart it. Typical."
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Start-of-Fic Disclaimer**: I do not own Jane and the Dragon, or any of the characters or places herein, except perhaps the evil invaders, and who would want them? I receive no compensation for writing works of fanfiction except possibly some nice reviews.

**Author's Note**: Well, here it is, my first attempt at a non-Harry-Potter fanfic. (And it isn't Twilight either, sorry Noelle!!) This is a kind of obscure fandom too – at least in comparison to Harry Potter's ginormous following – but I love the show, and I love the dynamic between Gunther and Jane. It's very, _very_ Dramione-esque, so if you enjoy my Dramione fics, I suggest you give it a try. It's rated T for language and mature themes (in this story, mature themes have more to do with danger and combat and bloodshed than with smut: this is NOT a smutfic.) Anyway… I hope you enjoy the read. I'm definitely enjoying writing it.

OOOOO

**Chapter 1: Prologue and Backstory**

OOOOO

Jane stared at herself in the mirror, frowning. She was not at all happy with the reflection that was currently frowning right back at her from the burnished metal surface. She didn't look like herself at all.

And she most certainly didn't look like a knight.

Which, of course, was most of the problem.

She _hated_ formal attire. It wasn't who she was. Gowns made her feel exquisitely uncomfortable, and more than that… _vulnerable_, somehow.

With her usual wild corona of copper colored hair twisted into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, with her normal comfortable, sensible attire replaced by a midnight blue gown that rustled when she moved, and with her sword-belt detached completely and lying across the foot of her bed, she barely recognized herself.

She sighed unhappily, turning away from the mirror with a shake of her head. Dwelling on it would do her no good. Better simply to go down, put in the mandatory appearance, and get it over with, hopefully winning herself the opportunity for an early departure from the "festivities."

_Gunther is going to give me hell about this, _she thought resignedly, casting one more longing glance at the sword-belt on her bed; even as bedecked and beribboned as she currently was, the truth was that she felt naked without it on her hip. _He is never going to let me live this down._

Then again, Gunther was the least of her worries at the moment.

She remembered back to a time when, little more than a child, she'd stood up for her right to attend a palace ball dressed as a knight – dressed as _herself_ , not some silly, simpering, corseted maiden – and had won.

The unfortunate truth was that things had changed a lot in the kingdom since then, in the years it had taken Jane to grow from twelve to nineteen, and very few of those changes had been for the better. The real catastrophes, though; _those_ had begun with the death of King Caradoc in a hunting accident two years ago. Prince Cuthbert, barely fourteen at the time, had decided against the advice of the entire court to take the Kingship upon himself immediately, rather than allowing it to pass into regency until he was older and better suited to rule. To those who objected he merely pointed out that his own father, the late king, had ascended to _his_ throne at the age of thirteen – which was a half-truth, at best. While Caradoc _had_ been only thirteen at the time of his father's death, he had done the sensible thing and _allowed_ for a regency. This part of the story, however, Cuthbert was careful to omit.

The only person who might have had a real chance of reasoning with him – his mother – was too stunned by grief to try. To the contrary, following a tradition of her homeland, she had taken herself away to a distant convent to mourn her beloved husband in solitude. Six months later, Cuthbert had sent his only sibling, the young princes Lavinia, to the same convent's boarding school for girls so that the heartbroken child could be near her mother. This left him the sole member of the royal family still residing in Kippernia Castle; a headstrong, inexperienced, adolescent king.

Trouble soon followed, as it has a way of doing.

Word quickly spread that the kingdom, with its rich, fertile farmlands, lush timber-producing forests, and valuable coastal ports, was in an extraordinarily vulnerable state – ripe for the taking, as a matter of fact – and this news, predictably, had attracted all manner of undesirable attention. Six months ago, things had really begun to go to hell.

Now, with a ragtag invading army camped just a few leagues from the castle, Jane paused to offer up a quick prayer of gratitude that the queen and princess _were _out of harm's way – and that her own mother had accompanied them hence.

And whilst all this was going on, the juvenile king was throwing a ball.

Nor was that the worst of it.

The juvenile king was throwing a ball _for the invaders_.

To the horror of his advisors, he had decided that instead of meeting the enemy force in open combat, he would try a strategy of appeasement first. Good King Caradoc – whom, in the privacy of her thoughts, Jane still insisted on referring to as the "_true_ king" despite the oath of allegiance she and the other knights of the realm had made to Cuthbert upon his coronation – had to be rolling over in his grave right now.

The warriors of Kippernium should have been drenching the ground with the blood of these vile invaders – _not wining and dining them!_

Caradoc would never have taken this cowardly route… but then again, that was a moot point because Kippernium would never have been in these dire straits had Caradoc remained on the throne.

He was young now, but even if he lived to be a hundred (which was unlikely, given the circumstances), Cuthbert would never be _half_ the king his father had been… and deep in his heart of hearts, Jane believed, he knew it.

And now she had, at the direct orders of this weak and frightened child-monarch, to go down to the ballroom, dressed in this ridiculous costume – for so the heavy gown and all its myriad accessories seemed to Jane – and help entertain people she would rather have seen on the end of her sword.

She shot one last mute, yearning look at that particular item before letting herself out of her room.


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N: My last fanfiction posting of 2008. Happy New Year one and all!)

OOOOO

Exiting her tower room, she looked around for Dragon, as was second-nature… before remembering that she would be unlikely to see him tonight. Cuthbert had ordered him to confine himself to his cave for the duration of the ball, so that their "guests" wouldn't feel threatened by him. She snorted at the irony of this as she descended the stairs. Tonight's guests _deserved_ to be threatened… and then they deserved to be cut to ribbons.

But Dragon was as tightly bound by the king's commands as anyone else, unless he wished to risk banishment. Jane didn't doubt, either, that Cuthbert _would_ consider banishing Kippernium's strongest defender, even in such times as these, if he were to disobey a direct order; but Dragon wasn't taking the chance. Being banished from the kingdom now would mean leaving Jane in danger, and Dragon would _never_ leave Jane in danger. So, however reluctantly, he had capitulated to Cuthbert's demand.

Gunther was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps. It was some small consolation to Jane that he seemed as uncomfortable in his formal attire as she felt in hers. He was shifting restlessly from foot to foot, and he didn't even bother to mock her – how was _that_ for out-of-character?

In fact, the only thing he said at all as they approached the ballroom from which lights and music blazed, was, "we should probably try to stick near each other tonight." That single statement spoke volumes; yes, he was every bit as ill-at-ease with this whole situation as she was. She couldn't imagine another reason, after all, that he would want to "stick near" her under these, or any other circumstances.

Over the years Gunther had surprised her – had surprised everyone, in point of fact – by taking the Code of Conduct increasingly to heart and actually growing into a downright decent young knight. That did not mean, however, that the relationship between him and Jane had become any easier. They were still rivals who were really only comfortable communicating with one another through banter, verbal sparring and taunts.

Hence Jane's surprise at his simple, quiet statement.

She would have been _astonished_, then, had she the least inkling of the depth of anxiety that lay beneath the surface of Gunther's seemingly offhand words. For though his outward behavior toward her had altered little over the years, his carefully guarded feelings _had_ changed… profoundly.

Jane paused, frowning, outside the ballroom door. "What do you mean by that?"

He deflected the question with one of his own. "Are you armed tonight?"

Jane's frown deepened. "No. Are you?"

"No. And that is a big part of it. We would be stronger together than apart, better able to act in defense of the kingdom, if anything should… happen."

"You are expecting trouble?"

He tossed a scowl toward the door. "I do not know _what_ to expect from this ridiculous farce. Do you?"

"Well no, of course n –"

"Right," he said, exasperation now coloring his voice, "which is why I think we should probably try and stick _near _each other tonight. Jane, this –" his voice dropped. "This is _not good_."

She bristled. "Do not patronize me, Gunther, I am neither blind nor stupid, I know this is not good!"

"All _right_. It is just –"

"Just what!?" She was positively seething now. "Gunther, _spit it out!_"

"Look, the men in there are not the most savory characters to begin with –"

"You think I do not _know that?_"

"_Will you let me finish!_"

The two of them stood glaring at each other, breathing hard for a long moment until Jane gestured curtly for him to continue.

"The men in there are not the most savory characters to begin with, and they have been on the march, or in military encampments, for a long time. _Without the company of women_, Jane." He watched her for a moment to see if she took his meaning before continuing. "And seeing as you… look… very nearly human tonight, I just think it would be wise for you to be very… _very_ careful."

Jane inwardly cursed the flush that was mounting in her cheeks as she tried in vain to make sense of the fact that Gunther actually appeared to be expressing _concern_ for her… coupled with the fact that he had just, for the first time in her life, paid her what very nearly amounted to a compliment on her appearance. It had been phrased in high Gunther-ese, of course, but… still.

She'd been feeling uncomfortable about this whole situation before. Now she felt thrown _completely _off-kilter.

Thank you ever so much, Gunther, for that.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. And finally managed, "I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself." She turned toward the door.

"Can you?" Gunther wondered bitterly behind her, "with your overgrown guard dog nowhere in sight?"

Jane hissed in a furious breath. "_Yes!_" she snarled, and angrily yanked the door open.


	3. Chapter 3

The number of people in the banquet hall was disconcerting, and the appearance of many of them was even more so. Though the leader of the invaders styled himself a king, and his followers an army, the reality was that the whole of the invading force was little more than an oversized band of displaced and disgruntled peasants, farmers and laborers hailing from some of the less prosperous lands surrounding Kippernium. To refer to them as… well, as any kind of organized fighting force, really, was too kind. Which was why Jane could not, for the life of her, understand Cuthbert's weak and cowardly strategy.

So it was true that the invaders had a small – well okay, maybe not so small – advantage in numbers… but in terms of equipment, organization, and basic military training, Jane was certain that the defenders of Kippernium could route these upstarts in a day. Oh, and a dragon. Mustn't forget the fire-breathing dragon. This made the tack Cuthbert had chosen to take unbelievably galling to Jane, as well as to others, she knew. Why, even if Kippernium were to be reduced to arming its _own_ farmers and laborers to take on these glorified bandits, they should still be able to claim victory without undue difficulty – everybody knew that men who fought in defense of their homes, families and livelihoods would fight more fiercely than any invading force.

Glancing around the room, it was apparent that no one was having an enjoyable time except, perhaps, for the invaders themselves. Pepper was bustling back and forth with trays of steaming food, Rake at her elbow like a shadow, never allowing her to be more than arm's length away from him. Apparently he and Gunther were of a mind when it came to the matter of allowing the invaders to mingle with Kippernium's womenfolk.

Of course, Rake was Pepper's husband and had been for over a year; their infant son was being looked after tonight by Smithy in his room off the forge. Pepper being his wife and the mother of his child, it was Rake's right and obligation to protect her from any threat or harm, either real or perceived. Gunther had no such obligation to – and no such _rights_ over – Jane.

Apparently, however, he saw things differently for, despite the sullen silence that had descended between them, he stuck every bit as close to Jane, as she made her entrance, as Rake was sticking to Pepper. Where on _earth_ was this sudden protective streak coming from?

It might almost have been endearing – _almost_ – except for the fact that it obviously meant – (what else could it mean?) – that he had absolutely no faith in her ability to take care of herself. And as such, she took it as a slap in the face. Hadn't she proved, over and over and _over_ again, that she needed no man to look after her?

God, he was absolutely infuriating.

_Death of me. That man is going to be the _death_ of me._

Jane stopped walking so abruptly that Gunther actually knocked into her. Where in Caradoc's name had _that_ thought come from? It was completely out of context… and sent a shiver running down her spine. She really _was_ out of sorts tonight, and no mistake.

"Jane?" came the voice of her unwanted knight protector in her ear.

"Gunther," she hissed, "leave me _be!_"

When he responded it sounded as if he were forcing the words out from between gritted teeth. "_Not. Tonight_."

Her hands balling into fists, she made her way through the throngs of people, acutely aware of his presence beside her, coupled with the glances that were being sent her way by the glorified peasants that comprised the "elite" of the invading force. Many of the looks were undeniably suggestive, some bordering on downright lewd; and she hated hated _hated_ that Gunther had been right about her apparently being an object of desire this evening.

She needed to make this torturous experience as short as she possibly could. With that end in mind, she wended her way toward Cuthbert, where he stood at one end of the hall, flanked by Sirs Ivon and Theodore. She would pay her respects to the king forthwith – after which she could hopefully beat a hasty retreat.

Unfortunately, such was not to be the case.

No sooner had she reached Cuthbert and dropped a curtsy, very nearly tripping over the hem of her thrice-damned gown as she did so, than the invading "king" himself approached through the crowd. She had seen him before on several occasions, but never in such close proximity. His formal attire was shabby and ill-fitting – probably stolen, Jane thought disdainfully – and he was preceded by a smell that she associated most closely with Smithy's pet pig.

It was all she could do to keep from wrinkling her nose in outward disgust. With an immense effort, she managed to school her face into a coolly polite expression as she allowed introductions to be made.

And then she realized, with ever mounting horror, that the main object of this man's interest – the reason he'd approached at just that moment – was not to speak with Cuthbert at all, but to be introduced to _her_.

With every passing moment, it seemed, this evening descended further into the realms of nightmare.

And there was nothing she could do, under the scrutiny of Cuthbert, who wanted everything to go smoothly tonight, but to swallow hard and feign interest in the lout. Daring a glance at Gunther, she saw that his jaw was clenched, mouth pressed into a hard line and hands fisted so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Jane wasn't sure she'd ever seen such suppressed fury in his stance… and for Gunther, that was saying a lot.

Just about every emotion he displayed seemed to Jane to be _some_ variation on anger, after all – and usually directed at her. _This_, though… this was something new.

If the so-called king of the invaders was in any way perturbed by Gunther's silent, seething hostility, however, he wasn't letting on. Jane discovered that he called himself Edgar – right before he asked to escort her to the banquet table.

Jane opened her mouth to say – well, she hardly _knew_ what, she was so far out of her comfort zone at the moment, what with the ridiculous getup she was wearing, Gunther's bizarre behavior, and the knowledge that she was currently being eyed by men all over the room much as a juicy piece of meat would be eyed by a pack of ravenous dogs. In the end she didn't have the opportunity to say anything at all, as Cuthbert exclaimed, "by all means, Jane, please do be kind enough to entertain our most esteemed guest!"

As she and her new escort turned away, Edgar's hand slipping under her elbow in a show of familiarity so distasteful that she had to fight herself to keep from flinging it violently off, she heard Cuthbert, behind her, say, "oh and Sir Gunther, I'll require your presence here beside me this evening."

She should have been glad to find herself rid of his unwarranted attention. So why did her heart sink and her stomach knot at those words? She threw a single, lightning-quick glance over her shoulder as she was led away, her eyes locking for just a fraction of a second on Gunther's. His dark grey eyes were blazing with an expression that could only be described as mute desperation.

The next hour or so was a test of endurance for Jane the likes of which she had never experienced in the practice yard, as she weathered Edgar's fumbling attempts at flattery, and tried not to gag at his smell.

It was as much as she could do to force even a few bites of Pepper's food down, though the castle cook had outdone herself tonight and under any other circumstances Jane would have found the meal incomparably delicious.

"– attendance tonight?"

Jane blinked and gave her head a slight shake, noticing as she did so that several tendrils of her notoriously willful hair were escaping the once-elegant knot she'd twisted it into.

She forced her attention back to the… man… beside her. "Sorry, what?"

"I merely remarked that you appear to be one of the only, if not the only high-born lady in attendance tonight. If I may ask, what _is_ your position here, Lady Jane?" His eyes, a washed-out and somewhat rheumy blue, narrowed shrewdly. "Are you the king's intended?"

"Ugh,_ NO!_"

She regretted the force of her answer almost immediately – it was just that the question had caught her so far off-guard. Cuthbert's intended!? What a plainly horrifying thought!

With effort, she forced her voice, both tone and volume, into a more appropriate register. "No, I serve King Cuthbert as a knight of the realm."

He just stared at her for half a beat, his mouth hanging open – and then burst into a braying fit of laughter, his fetid breath rolling over like a wave.

All right, that was it. She'd been polite long enough.

His laughter died in his throat as she got abruptly to her feet. ""Will you excuse me?" she said icily as he scrambled up after her. "I feel I need some air."

"Please allow me to accompany –"

"Thank you, but no. Stay and enjoy the festivities." Despite her best efforts, the anger and disdain she felt was beginning to creep into her voice. "They _are_ in your honor, after all."

Much to her further annoyance, however, he kept pace with her as she stalked toward the door. "I apologize, lady, for whatever I have done to displease you," he said, as she paused on the threshold. He actually did appear genuinely confused. "Was I not meant to laugh at your jest?"

"You may laugh or not, as you see fit," Jane snapped. "I really do not care." She wrenched the door open – and stopped short as she felt, once again, Edgar's hand settle on her arm. This was not the feather-light touch he had used some time ago, however, which had been distasteful enough. This was a firmer grasp – a _restraining_ grasp.

Jane stiffened, pulling a sharp breath in through her teeth, and whirled back to face him, hr green eyes now flashing. The invading king, however, seemed as impervious to her outrage as he had been to Gunther's earlier on. Before she could utter a sound he spoke again, his voice low and cajoling, and undeniably condescending.

"Come now, love, I told you I am sorry for whatever offense I gave. You do not have to tell me what position you hold at the court if you would rather not, Lady Jane. Now just listen for a moment before you retire for the night. I am going to be staying at the castle this evening, in a suite of rooms I am told belonged at one time to the princess. I trust you know where they are. If you were to see fit to join me there in a little while –" he dropped her a wink, the meaning of which could not be mistaken – "I _could_ see to it that you would be… richly rewarded."

What happened next happened very, very fast.

A heartbeat's worth of time passed during which Jane processed that yes, she had in fact just _been propositioned_… and a bare instant later Edgar was on his back on the floor, with her foot on his throat.

"If I had my sword you would be dead right now," she spat, so furious that her voice shook.

"Jane! JANE!" That was Gunther, and he was approaching at a flat run, shoving guests out of his way left and right.

Cuthbert was following in his wake, still flanked by Ivon and Theodore, but where Gunther appeared to be motivated by his strange new concern for her, Cuthbert was apoplectic with rage.

"Jane, you step away from him, you step away at _once!_"

She complied, stepping backward and with the same fluid motion managing to block Gunther's access to the man on the floor by moving straight into his path and flinging her arms out to the sides, forcing him to stop short.

She did this without ever breaking eye contact with the man she'd taken down. She continued to hold his gaze, her heart pounding and breath racing, as Cuthbert pushed past her and extended a hand to help Edgar up.

"– apologies of the entire court, please be assured that she will be reprimanded –" Cuthbert was babbling on, tripping over himself to apologize to a man who would, Jane was positive, be perfectly happy to see the young king's head on a pike.

It made her feel like retching.

She couldn't stand to watch this travesty any longer. She whirled around and, shoving Gunther unceremoniously out of her way, fled the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Jane yawned and stretched, then turned over and burrowed deeper into Dragon's warmth, fighting wakefulness. She didn't want to wake up, because that would mean having to think about what had happened last night, and then having to make her way back down to the castle and face the consequences of her actions.

She'd come straight up to the cave following her rather dramatic exit from the banquet, without even pausing to change her clothes…and if there was anything good to be said about the gown, now a rumpled, dirty mess, it was that the yards and yards of fabric had served her well as both cushion and blanket.

Now, though… now it was really time to haul herself up and brave the fallout.

_Nooooo_… she shook her head in mute denial, her restlessness now causing Dragon to stir. _I don't want to go back there. Ever_.

She would, though. Of course she would. Aside from her oath of allegiance to Cuthbert, which she was duty-bound to honor however poor and ineffectual a king he was proving himself to be, there was the matter of her father, and her friends at the castle; the people she had grown over the years to consider, in very real way, to be her family.

Smithy. Jester. Rake and Pepper and their child. Her mentor Sir Theodore and the irascible Sir Ivon. And yes, difficult as it was for her to admit it, even Gunther. The fate of Kippernium hung in the balance and that meant that they were all in danger – and Jane now feared that her rash actions of the night before might well have increased that danger exponentially.

Not that she had ever approved in the least of Cuthbert's appeasement tactics, but whatever slim hope they may have had for success had probably been dashed the moment Jane's foot had ended up planted on the invading king's throat. An attack on the castle was probably imminent.

And damned if she was going to miss it.

If there was any way she could correct the damage she had done, she had to try. And if there was nothing to be done except to prepare for outright war, then prepare she would.

Stay snug up in Dragon's cave while her loved ones were left cleaning up her mess for her? Out of the question. That wasn't who she was.

She sat up.

Beside her, Dragon stretched mightily. "Good morning Coppertop," he yawned, fixing her with one golden eye. "Reconsidered?" His voice was hopeful. He was referring of course to the offer he had made upon her arrival the previous night, to personally seek out whatever… _creature_ this was that had so offended his Jane, and roast him to a nice, even, golden crisp.

Jane raked both her hands through her mess of hair and even managed a small smile. "Very tempting, Dragon, but no. Not this morning, at any rate. I made this mess; I have to see what can be done about… _un_making it. I will, however, keep your offer in mind as a backup plan. It seems like the most sensible course of action altogether, if only the _king_ would come around to seeing it that way."

Dragon snorted. "The _king_. The day that wretched shortlife does _anything_ sensible…"

"I know. Still, this is bigger than him. There are all the others to think about. I have got to go try and sort this out." She stood up, straightening her ruined gown as best she could.

"Fly you down then, Jane?"

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Thank you, but I will walk. I need the time to think. Why don't you come on down at midday? Cuthbert only said you had to stay away during the banquet. He said nothing about today. Hopefully everything will be resolved by lunchtime, and you and I can fly this afternoon."

"Consider it a date. Can we fly over the enemy camp? I do enjoy seeing them wave their arms and run around in little circles at the sight of us. Remember last time, must have been twenty of them crowded into one little tent, until it fell down? As if a tent could save them if I decided to dive! It really was quite humorous." Smoke curled from his nostrils as he reminisced.

Jane laughed and leaned in against him, pressing her forehead to his large, warm cheek. "I love you, Greenlips," she murmured. For a moment, just a moment, she felt completely and thoroughly warm, and peaceful, and safe.

Though she didn't know it at the time, it would be a while before she'd feel any of those things again.

OOOOO

"You may rise, Jane." Cuthbert spoke just as Jane had decided that he would keep her on bended knee forever just as a means of tormenting her. She was only relieved that the two of them were completely alone in the throne room, which was somewhat unusual. At least there was no one present to witness her humiliation.

Of course, the fact that Cuthbert was not pleased with her came as little surprise. Now she just wanted an actionable plan for addressing the situation. Something that she could get on with.

Something to remove her from his company.

And he was more than willing to oblige.

"I have a diplomatic… errand for you, of sorts," he continued as she stood. "It will require you to depart today, in no more than an hour's time. Jane, your behavior last night was insupportable, and has pushed us to the brink of war –"

_We were on the brink of war already!_ She thought angrily.

"– fortunately, however, a diplomatic solution is still within reach. Despite the deep offense you caused to Lord Edgar –"

_Oh, so it is _Lord_ Edgar now, is it? This time a year ago he was probably mucking out stables and here you are kowtowing to him like he is the king and you are the subject!_

" – and despite the fact that as a result he decided to return to his encampment last night rather than staying in the castle as a gesture of faith and goodwill, he has sent word that he will not attack us imminently… if certain conditions are met."

_Yes, by all means tell me about the would-be tyrant's conditions. I am sure they are reasonable in the extreme_.

Cuthbert's next words, however, were _so_ unexpected and horrific that they actually knocked the air from her lungs.

"You are to call on him personally at his encampment, alone and unarmed, as an emissary of peace."

"Wh – " she couldn't speak. She suddenly and quite literally felt sick. She rallied and tried again. "_What?_"

"He wishes to discuss terms of peace. He is most adamant that he wishes to discuss them with _you_, and none other. I have agreed to this. You will go as my personal representative." He frowned. "I do not understand why you look so troubled. I would be well within my rights, after the stunt _you_ pulled, to send you away permanently. Instead I choose to honor you by appointing you my ambassador. I expect you to do all in your power to further the cause of peace in this kingdom. Lord Edgar has assured me that you will be returned to my service three days hence; I fervently hope it will be with good news. That is all, Jane. You may go."

She couldn't move. She could hardly breathe. She couldn't do anything but stare at him in horror.

_Alone and unarmed? Returned to your service in three days? You cannot believe that. Not even you, as blind and willful as you are, could possibly believe that. You _MUST _know what you are sending me into. You know and you are sending me anyway. You could not possibly expect to _EVER_ see me again_.

So this was to be her punishment for ruining the banquet? Torture and death? For it _was_ a death sentence, Jane was positive of that… And so was Cuthbert. He _had_ to be. Right? He couldn't _honestly_ have any doubt about what he was sending her into, could he?

There was not enough air in the room. "I –"

"Yes, Jane?"

"What… if I refuse?"

Cuthbert's frown became thunderous. "Then there will be war, and Kippernium could well fall. But not before you are imprisoned as a traitor. There are tunnels and catacombs far beneath this castle, Jane. I could hide you where even your pet dragon would not find you. You may yet hear the sounds of your friends fighting and falling above you, however." He shrugged. "I know not. However, that will not come to pass. You will accept your king's command and set out forthwith. Will you not, Jane?"

Imprisonment. The knowledge that a battle was being waged and she was powerless to join in the fight, to aid in the defense of her loved ones and home. It was the worst threat he could level against her. Worse than certain death. It could not be risked.

"Yes, sire," she choked out.

"Good. Then get you gone. And remember, Jane, it is no accident that I arranged to hold this conference with you strictly in private. No one is to know of this. _No_ one. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sire," she repeated. Her voice was dull now; wooden.

"Very good. You are dismissed, Jane."


	5. Chapter 5

She walked out into the courtyard in a daze, hardly knowing – or caring – where she was going.

She was going to die. It was one thing to go into battle, knowing that death was a possibility. It was another thing entirely to have it looming over her as a certainty.

She was going to die.

And the most that she could hope for, the very _most_, was that it would be a quick death, with a minimum of torture preceding it.

Feeling very nearly drugged with the horror of it, she half-leaned, half-fell against the nearest wall. The stones were sun-warmed, rough and solid. Dragon loved to laze about on the walls when they were like this.

She would never see Dragon again.

This fresh realization nearly drove her to her knees. As it was, she dropped her head into the crook of her arm where it was braced against the wall.

_Breathe deep. Get control of yourself. You are a knight_.

She couldn't do this. She _had_ to do this. She –

"Jane?"

She whirled about, pressing her back to the wall, and found Gunther standing a few paces behind her, looking at her critically. "I came to see if you were up for some sparring, but… you do not look well." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you all right?"

She had to be imagining the concern in his voice, because certainly nothing was showing on his face.

"I… just… uhm…" she pulled in a deep steadying breath. She had to keep her composure. Gunther couldn't know; those were her orders. _No_ one could know. She was in this alone.

All alone.

Before she could rally herself to give some excuse or other, though, Gunther's eyes, which had been scrutinizing her face, narrowed. Abruptly, jerkily, he raised a hand and raked it through his hair, muttered something that sounded like, "oh, hell," and then closed the distance between them in a single, purposeful stride.

"Jane."

When she refused to look him in the eye, he grasped her chin and tilted her face upward, compelling her to meet his gaze. "I have to know. What happened last night? Were… were you in any way hurt?"

Backed up against the wall, emotionally shattered from her conference with the king, Jane stared up at Gunther in shock. She could barely make sense of the question, and was at a complete loss to phrase an answer. "I… Gunther, _what?_"

"Damn it, Jane, did he _hurt_ you!?"

"I… no… only my pride. Gunther, I –"

"What did he say to you?"

She was having a hard time keeping back the tears that had begun to threaten when she'd realized that she would never see Dragon again. She did not want to be having this conversation right now. She _could_ not be having this conversation right now. It was going to push her right over the brink.

"Gunther, I have to _go_ –"

His eyes were practically throwing off sparks by now. "_What. Did. He. Say?_"

She wrenched her head out of his grasp and turned away from him, bringing up one hand as she did so, pressing it to her forehead, shading her eyes. "He just… he off… offered me _compensation_ to… to…" she couldn't finish. A new insight had just slammed her so hard it was all she could do to stay upright.

_I will be _lucky_ if all he does is torture me before he kills me – he probably will _rape_ me, too!_

She was so wrapped up in her private anguish that she failed to notice Gunther's physical reaction – the way he blanched almost as if he'd been struck a blow, then clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug little white crescents into the skin of his palms. Even as far gone as she was, however, she could not fail to notice the shaking rage in his voice as he said, "I am going to _kill_ that bastard."

That was what did it. She couldn't stand anymore.

"_Why!?_" she half-shouted, half-sobbed, rounding on him. "Why, Gunther, why do you care!?"

The force of her anger actually caused him to take a step backward. "Jane, I –"

"Why do you care, and why _now!?_ Why not a week ago, or a month ago, or a _year_ ago? Why now, when it cannot possibly do any good? Why now, when it is too late? Why, Gunther, _why NOW?!?_"

He was staring at her in open-mouthed shock. 'Jane, what –"

She cut him off. "You know what, never mind. You need not answer, it does not matter. It might have once, but now… now…" She had to stop speaking as her breaths were piling up, one on top of another. It was the tears, fighting to dominate her, fighting to flow. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could hold them in by force.

_I will not cry. I WILL NOT_.

_Damned_ if she would cry in front of him. She had to get away.

She pushed herself away from the wall. When she spoke again it was in a voice that was still unsteady, but at least _approaching_ normal. "Please forgive me, I… you are right, I am not feeling at all well today. Would you make my excuses to Sir Theodore for me? I do not feel up to practice this morning. And Dragon – when he comes down at midday – would you tell him that I am lying down, and we will patrol tomorrow instead? Could you do that for me, Gunther?"

"Yes, Jane." His voice was quiet, but his eyes were more troubled than she had ever seen them. He turned away.

He hadn't gotten even a dozen paces, though, before yet another stark realization hit Jane. _I am never going to see Gunther again, either_. Suddenly she couldn't let him go like that; couldn't let the last words to pass between them be so harsh.

"Gunther!"

He stopped. Turned back. He wasn't looking directly at her, though; not this time. His grey gaze was centered somewhere just over her shoulder.

"Yes?" His voice was devoid of emotion again; completely noncommittal.

"Listen, I… I apologize for the things I said a moment ago. I really am not… not myself today at all. I just… I would not want… what I mean to say is… please do not think unkindly of me… later."

For just a split second his eyes flew back to hers, probing, questioning, searching – then he gave a little one-shouldered shrug and turned away again. "I will deliver your messages, Jane," he said flatly, and walked away.

_Gunther, do not _leave_ me here!_ she wanted to shout. _God, I am so frightened – how am I supposed to do this, how!?_

But she clamped down on the cry in her throat, took a moment to compose herself to the best of her ability, and then crossed the courtyard toward her tower room.

She had a journey to prepare for.

OOOOO

Jane pulled her horse up a stone's throw from the invader's camp. She hadn't wanted to bring the animal at all, and would have walked, except she'd wanted to make good time so as not to risk Dragon spotting her on the road when he flew down at midday. Even so, she'd covered her head in an old, dented helm she'd taken from the equipment room, hiding her unmistakable hair from view.

She dismounted now; she'd send the horse back and cover the rest of the distance on foot. Just because she went to torture and death was no reason to condemn her mount to capture as well. Taking him by the bridle, she turned him on the road so that he was facing back toward Kippernia Castle. For just a moment she stood by his head, stroking his velvety nose, then she threw her arms around his warm, sleek neck and hugged him tight. He was her last connection, after all, with the people and place she loved enough to sacrifice herself. Her last connection with home.

Then a shout went up from the encampment behind her, and she knew she'd been seen. Releasing the horse, she backed away toward his tail and then smacked him, hard, on the hindquarters.

As he took off galloping toward home she turned to face her fate. Half a dozen or so men were bearing down on her at a run.

Ten minutes later, her arms bound behind her with strips of rawhide, she was being half-led, half-shoved into the camp by a troop of hooting, jeering men.


	6. Chapter 6

It was dark when they came to get her.

When Jane had entered the encampment, she had been taken straight to a tent near the middle, roughly untied, shoved in through the flap, and left alone.

The interior of the tent contained nothing but the packed-earth floor, stained canvas walls stretched over a framework of thin wooden poles, and a single larger timber pole in the center, holding the entire sorry affair upright.

There was no one else in the tent, but that didn't mean that she was left unguarded. She could hear men moving around just outside; even see them silhouetted against the filthy canvas. There seemed to be one positioned at each corner of the squarish construction, so escape was not an option.

Of course, escape was not an option regardless. If she had been determined to escape Cuthbert's edict, all she would have had to do was go straight to Dragon when she'd left the castle that morning. A few moments to explain the situation to him, and they could have fled the kingdom together to seek their fortunes elsewhere – assuming she could have talked him out of waging his _own_ war on the castle and roasting Cuthbert alive.

But that was neither here nor there, as it wouldn't have solved the problem of leaving her loved ones in imminent danger. Jane had been unable to think of a satisfactory way to accomplish this since leaving her audience with Cuthbert (of course, she was so deeply distraught that she failed to take into consideration the fact that she probably wasn't thinking straight.) No, the only solution that had seemed feasible in terms of protecting her friends and family had been to do as Cuthbert had ordered and sacrifice herself. She had chosen her path, and would not deviate from it now. Even if one of the guards outside had thrown open the tent flap and shouted at her to run for it, she would not have done so.

There were others to think about beside herself, after all. So many others whose lives hung in the balance.

No, escape was not an option.

She walked slowly, almost trancelike, to the middle of the tent, and folded herself onto the hard-packed floor. Leaning her back against the central pole she pulled her knees up to her chest, dropped her head forward onto them, wrapped her arms around her legs, and closed her eyes.

She stayed like that for most of the day.

Waiting. And remembering.

OOOOO

Her memories of growing up, of the people and places she loved, kept her company all that long, long day. She remembered gathering chestnuts with her mother in the autumn, running on a carpet of red and yellow fallen leaves. She remembered Lavinia as a little girl, not the sad-eyed teenager she had become; remembered her flitting about the castle with a tiny pair of wings strapped to her back, filling the courtyards and corridors with her laughter, hosting tea parties beside the fountain on summer days.

She remembered helping Rake in his garden, gathering ingredients for a grateful Pepper. She remembered sitting on the castle ramparts and stargazing with Jester on warm evenings while he sang and strummed softly; not really listening to the words, just letting the music wash over her like balm after a hard day's practice.

She remembered helping her father with his ledgers and lists, keeping Smithy company as he worked in the forge, feeding Pig choice scraps from the kitchen. She remembered eating supper by lantern-light at the garden table with her friends; the easy camaraderie that had flowed between them.

She remembered the queen the way she had been before her husband's early death had shattered her heart; a paragon of graceful womanhood with her gentle manner and serene smile. She remembered King Caradoc himself who had been, more than anything else, a true family man; perfectly enchanted by his wife and children. She remembered stern, disciplined Sir Theodore, her silver-templed mentor, and loud, portly Sir Ivon, master of inventions that never worked.

She remembered Dragon. She remembered screwing her courage to the sticking place on the day she'd set out to meet him for the very first time, convinced that she was about to confront a mortal enemy; never dreaming that she would be making the friend of a lifetime. She remembered his peculiar and fanciful fetish for cows. She remembered Dragon calling encouragement to her in the practice yard as he lazed the mornings away on the castle's sun-warmed walls. His large, solid presence beside her as they passed long afternoons poring over the runes in his cave. She remembered laughing at the humorous, and often rude, nicknames he invented for the various "shortlives" that populated the castle and surrounding area. The wind in her hair and the wild, weightless exhilaration of flying with him – a feeling that never dulled with time or repetition.

And, somewhat to her surprise, more than any of the others, she remembered Gunther.

Gunther sparring with her in the practice yard, smirking at his victories or scowling at defeat, but always, no matter what, pushing pushing _pushing_ her to be stronger, faster, smarter, _better_.

Gunther stalking away from the garden supper table into the darkling of a summer night, offended by some offhand remark by Smithy or Jester. The mental armor he had constructed as a child to protect him from such perceived slights and rejections had appeared formidable – but in reality it had been thin, and the insecurity it shielded so terribly deep.

She remembered his face twisting in anger and shame on the myriad occasions that she had bested him in some childhood contest his father had witnessed; remembered him shoveling Pepper's food down like he hadn't eaten in weeks when he'd turned fifteen and hit a major growth spurt; remembered concealing herself to watch him practice with his longbow and understanding as she did so (though she wouldn't have admitted it even on pain of torture) that this was an area in which he was truly and genuinely gifted; a skill at which she would never, ever best him.

She remembered coming across him in rare, unguarded moments; finding him asleep on clean hay in the stables, or daydreaming in the sun; whittling some little trinket out of wood or bone in a shady corner of the courtyard on a hot afternoon, and once, memorably, even partaking of one of Princess Lavinia's tea parties.

She remembered him yanking her back from the edge of a precipice when she was twelve, saving her life; remembered him increasingly distancing himself from his father's questionable morals and unsavory ways as his teenaged years progressed, until it was clear to everyone in the court, as well as to Magnus himself, that Gunther had finally and irrevocably chosen his own path in life. That he was no longer, nor would ever be again, his father's pawn.

She remembered the night he'd moved into the castle; he'd arrived unexpectedly, after dark and in the middle of a downpour, drenched to the skin, jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering, no possessions but the clothes on his back. Seventeen he'd been then, with his sopping hair straggling into his steel-colored eyes, and the entire left side of his face a massive, vicious, spreading bruise.

Pepper and Jane, Smithy and Jester and Rake, all of whom had been sitting around the scrubbed-wood preparation table nursing mugs of hot cider had stared in astonishment, but the expression on his face, as thunderous as the weather, had invited neither questions nor comments. He had virtually collapsed into an empty chair, folded his arms on the tabletop, and dropped his head onto them.

He hadn't moved at all when Pepper had hesitantly offered him a mug of cider; hadn't moved at all, in fact, for the next two hours or so. It was only as everyone was going to bed and Smithy gave him a rather vigorous shake that they had discovered his father (well, everyone had always assumed it had been his father; Gunther had never said a word on the subject one way or the other) had actually hit him hard enough to give him a concussion.

Some parting gift.

The depth of Jane's fear that night, as she'd sat awake beside his pale and unmoving form, had shocked her. The depth of her anger toward Magnus had shocked her more.

In the end Gunther had recovered, none the worse for wear in any lasting sense; but he had never spoken of his father again, and never again slept away from the castle except for the times he'd been specifically sent hence on some errand or other. Jane for her part had single-mindedly buried the uncomfortable feelings that had arisen in her on that tense and eventful night, and aside from the rather closer quarters they now shared, life had gone on in much the same way as it ever had for the two knights-in-training.

She remembered Gunther's knighting ritual. Knighting the two squires, first Gunther and then, about a month later, Jane herself, had been one of King Caradoc's final acts before the incident that took his life.

Gunther had been required to keep a vigil in the chapel the night before the ceremony, kneeling alone on the cold stone floor from dusk until dawn in quiet contemplation of "the sacred and lifelong trust into which he was about to enter." Jane had padded quietly down from her room at about ten o'clock and spent the next several hours, until at least two in the morning, standing her own quiet vigil over _him_. She had never been sure exactly what had motivated her; the closest she had come to putting it into words was that she had trained along with Gunther almost from the very beginning, and even in this, the most isolated and introspective part of the knighting ritual, it just didn't feel right to leave him entirely friendless and alone.

She had stayed at the back of the chapel, cloaked in the sepulchral silence and shadows of the ancient building, and had not thought that Gunther had even noticed her presence. The next day, though, at the meal in his honor (a meal which Magnus had had the audacity to attend, trying to play the part of the beaming father for all that the two men had spoken not a single word to one another, so far as Jane had seen) he had leaned down in passing and murmured in her ear, "thank you for last night. It was more endurable knowing I was not alone."

No more had been said on the matter. But a month later, when it was Jane's turn to prise herself up off the chapel floor in the watery light of the dawn, stiff and chilled to the bone from an entire night of kneeling in place, she turned toward the door just in time to see it quietly slipping shut.

She hadn't kept her vigil alone, either.

This, and a thousand memories more, paraded through her mind as the sun first ascended toward its zenith, then began its slow downward trek toward the western horizon. And out of all the faces to visit her mind on that long, lonely day, the one that appeared most often by far had dark hair and troubled grey eyes.

Almost like a shadow, a wraith, Gunther kept her company as she waited to die.

It was dark when they came to get her.


	7. Chapter 7

Arms bound once more behind her back, she was escorted again by half a dozen or so men, who now led her down a sort of mud-splattered boulevard that ran through the center of the camp. Word of her presence must have gotten around, for the path was lined with jeering, torch-bearing men come to get a look at her as she passed.

One of them actually threw something at her – she dodged quickly enough not to have to find out what it was – and another shouted a comment so graphically crude that it made her blush to the roots of her hair, and caused everyone else within earshot to burst into lewdly appreciative laughter.

_Oh, yes_, she thought with bitter, impotent anger, _yes, this is a _fine _example of ambassadorial treatment. And it is certain to only get better from here. Thank you _ever_ so much, Cuthbert, for awarding me this HONOR_.

Then the boulevard widened into a sodden, muddy gathering area in front of a larger and rather more ornate tent than any other she had yet seen. _This is it_, she thought with resigned horror; _this is where Edgar will be. I wonder where he stole the tent from? Likely the same place he came by his formal attire_.

And sure enough, as the procession halted in front of the command tent, the man himself stepped out through the flap.

He appeared infinitely more comfortable in his plain fighting gear than he had in the ill-fitting formal attire of the night before, but that wasn't to say that he was any more attractive. In addition to the rather close-set and faded blue eyes that Jane had made note of previously, he had lank, receding hair of an indeterminate sandy color, and the physique of a muscular man gone slightly to seed.

He seemed to possess some sort of charisma that endeared him to his men, for they burst into boisterous cheers at the sight of him; but whatever that quality might have been, it was lost on Jane. She saw nothing even remotely redeeming in his appearance, expression or stance. He was as wholly loathsome to her now as he'd been on every other occasion she had laid eyes on him.

With a final, decisive shove to the small of her back, she found herself standing before him.

As she glared daggers at him, he raised both hands, gesturing his men for silence.

"So," he called out when he had achieved the effect he wanted – or as close to it as possible when in the midst of hundreds of worked-up men – "the charming lady knight has come to negotiate after all!"

The crowd hooted and jeered.

"Well then, Lady Jane," he continued, swaggering up to her, "what would you like to discuss, eh?"

So his first order of business was to make public mockery of her. Jane set her jaw and said nothing.

Edgar shook his head and tutted. "Come now, milady, do you not think it would benefit you to be a bit politer, under the circumstances?"

"Good manners are lost on one such as you," Jane ground out between her teeth.

"Oh, come now; you could at least give it a try."

"I _did_ give it a try!" Jane spat. "I was as civil as I could stand, for as _long_ as I could stand, at the banquet last night… and where did _that _get me? Here!"

"You came of your own free will," Edgar pointed out serenely.

"But I cannot _leave_ of my own free will. _Can_ I?"

"Well, that depends. I am sure we can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement… if you would care to step into the privacy of my tent for some… _vigorous_ negotiations." For the benefit of his men, he dropped a widely exaggerated wink, which was answered by a chorus of appreciative hoots and whistles.

Jane's fists clenched. "I would rather _die_."

Edgar cocked an eyebrow mockingly. "Rather die than negotiate? Some emissary of peace _you_ are. Hmmm… I shall have to think this over."

He made a show of pondering for the benefit of his men, then – "So King Cuthbert sends us an negotiator who will not negotiate… this being the case, I find no alternative but to declare King Cuthbert in breach of the contract he made with me last night. Therefore –" he paused dramatically – "we shall attack the castle in two days' time!"

A mighty roar went up from the assemblage. Jane paled.

Edgar waved a dismissive hand in her direction. "Return her to her tent. Keep her under heavy guard. She will accompany us to Kippernia Castle so as to witness our victory firsthand." As the men cheered on he continued in a quieter voice to Jane alone, "Come to think of it, that kitchen girl was rather comelier than you are, anyway. A far softer, riper example of womanly beauty. And she has a husband and child, does she not? With their well-being at stake, I think she might just prove to be _far_ more open to negotiation than you, milady."

_Oh, God. Pepper._

Jane's stomach turned over so violently that for a second she actually thought she was going to be physically ill. She managed to clamp down on the urge to throw up just as someone seized her none too gently by the arm and started to haul her away.

She dug in her feet, never breaking her eye contact with Edgar. He had her and he knew it. The triumph on his face as he waited patiently for her to confirm it made her head swim with hate.

"Wait," she choked out, her voice clogged with misery, and helpless rage.

Edgar cocked his head, raising a hand to cup his ear in a theatrically exaggerated fashion. "What was that, Lady Jane?"

"I said, wait."

He motioned to her guards, who released her and stepped back. "Was there something else you wanted to say?" he asked, in a voice flooded with false courtesy.

"Leave them alone."

"_And_…?"

"Leave them alone and we... we can negotiate."

"Hmm. Tempting, but –"

"Leave them alone and I will do whatever you ask of me."

Edgar grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "_Anything_ I ask?"

"Yes," Jane gritted out.

Edgar's grinned widened. "A little louder, if it please you, Lady Jane."

Unshed tears burned and stung the backs of her eyes as she raised her chin and practically shouted, "I will do _anything you ask_, just leave them _BE!_"

"Well, milady," Edgar rejoined to the raucous delight of his men, "if you absolutely insist."

Jane just glared silent defiance at him as he stepped closer.

"You know," he said, almost conversationally, "I believe this will be most enjoyable. Perhaps we should seal our bargain before we go inside to… _talk_ further. Ordinarily a handshake would do, but seeing as you are restrained, I think perhaps the circumstances call for a kiss."

"Or you could unbind me," Jane pointed out. She was trying – trying hard – for a flat affect; an uncaring demeanor. But her poise was deserting her now, at last. The tears were pushing hard, almost _demanding_ to flow. _I will not cry, not here and not inside, I do not care _what_ he makes me do, I _will not_ cry_…

"True," Edgar allowed; he was so close to her now that he was nearly whispering, "I _could_ unbind you, but where would be the fun in that? Not only do I prefer the kiss, but it will make a better show for my men. And besides… a handshake indicates equality. A kiss, on the other hand, indicates _ownership_."

He took another step forward, and now they were face-to-face, so close their noses were nearly touching.

"And I _will_ own you tonight, _milady_ –" He raised his left hand; fisted it hard in her hair. Smiled at her gasp of pain.

"Every –" he raised his right hand; ran his thumb roughly over her lips – "last –" he lowered his head so that his own lips were now moving against her skin, making her shudder with disgust – "inch of you."

And then he kissed her, hard. It was the first kiss of Jane's life.

And two things happened, in extraordinarily fast succession.

OOOOO

The first was a thought that blazed across Jane's consciousness with the suddenness and clarity of sunlight bursting through the haze of an overcast day. The thought was shocking not only in its force, but also because it was something she had never articulated before; not even to herself. But it was here now, burning as fiercely as dragonfire in her mind, and she understood in that instant that whether she'd admitted it to herself or not, she had felt this way for a very long time.

_This belonged to Gunther, how _dare_ you take what was rightfully HIS!_

That was the first thing – and oh, the anger that accompanied that thought. It was enough to drive all logic and rational thought from her mind. The fact that there were reasons (and they were reasons which had, just an instant ago, seemed _incredibly_ compelling) for her submission to his advances – that fact evaporated to nothing under the blast of emotion that accompanied her realization. Edgar had just helped himself to something she'd been saving for Gunther, whether consciously or not, since she'd been twelve years old.

The second thing, less than a heartbeat later, was a physical, knee-jerk _reaction_ to that anger – literally.

Her leg pistoned upward with all the strength she could put behind it, driving her knee squarely into Edgar's groin.

Edgar collapsed to the ground in silent, deflated agony. For a second, shocked silence reigned. Then Jane's nearest guard jerked her backward, hard, against his body; and a heartbeat later had his dagger pressed to her throat hard enough to draw a trickle of blood, immobilizing her as others rushed to Edgar's aid.

For Jane, the next few minutes seemed to stretch on forever; she was swimming in an ocean of time as the point of the dagger dug painfully into her flesh, her breath coming now in short, sharp gasps.

She swallowed convulsively and the blade bit deeper.

Then Edgar was back on his feet facing her, his expression a study in blackest, boiling rage. He motioned curtly to the man holding Jane, and the dagger was lowered. The respite, however, was very short-lived.

"You stupid… little… _wench!_" Edgar snarled, face contorted with fury – and then he backhanded her with spectacular force.

Lights bloomed before her eyes; she tasted blood and would have fallen were she not still being held upright by the man with the dagger.

And an instant later, before she'd even remotely begun to recover from the first blow, Edgar struck her again; this time driving his fist into her stomach and savagely knocking the air from her lungs. Her legs buckled as she struggled for breath, pulling frantically for air and finding none.

She couldn't breathe.

When next Edgar spoke, it seemed to Jane that his voice was coming from across a vast, echoing distance – even though she knew that in reality he was mere inches away from her.

"I think a public flogging is in order here," he said with flat hate. "Secure our _guest_ to the whipping post."


	8. Chapter 8

**Interlude: Gunther**

OOOOO

Gunther was having a rare, rare day.

Or at any rate, it had _begun _as a rare day. It had proceeded, by this time, to a rare night.

And most of it had to do with the fact Jane was nowhere. _Nowhere_.

Damnable infuriating woman, grown from a damnable infuriating girl. She had been the bane of his existence since they'd been children together… so why was his unease (borderline panic, if he was going to be completely honest with himself, which was a rarity but did happen every _now_ and again) mounting with each passing moment he was unable to find her?

_Something is wrong. Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is WRONG_.

The thought was clanging in his head like an alarum bell.

It had taken a fair while for the unease to really set in. He had been relatively fine in the morning – likewise in the early afternoon. Somewhat disturbed (though not particularly surprised) by what Jane had disclosed in the courtyard regarding Edgar the Invader's intentions, but still, fine overall.

Well, alright, 'somewhat disturbed' was perhaps a less accurate description than 'boiling over with rage' and 'overall fine' was perhaps a less accurate description than 'need to kill something now.' Nevertheless, he'd been holding it together until he'd realized that several – not a couple, not a few, but _several_ – hours had passed without so much as a sign of Jane.

Which wasn't like her. At all.

Jane was not the type to cloister herself in her room for hours at a time, _ever_, even when she was ill. She'd have to be practically on death's door to stay in bed for a whole day. Past instances when she hadn't been up to training exercises for one reason or another, she could still be found in the library or the garden or… well, _somewhere_, damn it. There were times when she'd been younger that she had literally been _chased_ back to bed by her mother, and later, after her mother had left, by Pepper, for attempting to do chores or just be up and about when she was clearly under the weather and in need of rest.

So when she'd indicated that she'd wanted to rest through midday, he'd expected to see her around the castle again by late afternoon at the most… but late afternoon had lapsed into early evening, which had passed into late evening, and no one he'd asked had seen her, not Rake or Sir Theodore or Jester or even her father (who had been wearing an expression of distracted anxiety which, though Gunther did not know it, was practically the mirror-image of his own) and… and all this would be worrying enough all by itself.

_Then_ there was the matter of their little… encounter that morning.

It was something he couldn't get out of his mind.

There had just been something so… so deeply, unsettlingly _wrong _about that whole conversation.

Jane had so obviously been troubled – no, more than troubled, almost… _tortured_.

He had never, _ever_ seen her so deeply affected by anything before; she had grown, over the years, to be almost as adept, when she wanted to be, at keeping her emotions in check as _he_ was. Not _as_ adept, no – but almost.

This morning, though – this morning she'd looked like a hunted animal. Lost, and desperate, and _hopeless_, all at once.

And her words – two things stuck out in his mind. _Why now, now when it is too late!?_ That question was disturbing enough. But at least it had been delivered with Jane's characteristic spitfire verve – so much so that he'd been quite literally driven backward by the force of it. It was the last thing she had said to him, and the tone in which she'd said it; a flat lifelessness that was like nothing he'd ever heard from her before – _that_ was what had been repeating in his mind, endlessly, all day long.

_Please do not think of me unkindly… later_.

Those words – every time they cycled through his mind, and they had cycled through his mind probably a hundred times already today – turned him cold with a sick, creeping fear.

They had almost seemed the words of someone who had not expected to see him again. _EVER_.

And now, with the sun a blazing orange ball balancing on the horizon, he could not justify putting it off any longer. He approached Jane's bedroom with the intent of knocking on her door.

He had hoped, _really_ hoped, to have found her somewhere else around the castle. If Jane really was abed, and had been all day, then she must truly be feeling terrible, and would probably resent his intrusion.

At least, that was what he had been telling himself on the surface. The truth of the matter – or a good deal closer _to_ the truth, at any rate – was that once he knocked on that door it would be very difficult to maintain his façade of disinterest any longer.

If he came calling on her in her sickbed, it would be perfectly apparent, once and for all, that… well, that he _cared_.

And he did not want that.

It wasn't that he was still denying to _himself_ that he cared deeply for Jane – he'd given up that particular battle for lost _long_ ago. He cared. But to have _Jane _in the know about it – somehow that idea just galled him.

She had never said or done anything to indicate that his well-concealed feelings (well-concealed until last night, at any rate) might be even the least bit reciprocal.

He had been waiting for years.

Anything – a glance, a word, anything even the least bit suggestive that she might feel the same, and he would have fessed up long ago… but no such evidence had ever been forthcoming.

And he had not been willing to go out on a limb, uncertain of what kind of reception he might receive. He remembered concealing himself behind a low, sun-baked wall when he'd been seventeen years old, shortly after he'd moved into Kippernia Castle, in order to eavesdrop on the conversation in which Jane had told Jester, gently but with finality, that he was one of her best friends in all the world – that he always had been, and that he always _would_ be. Friendship, deep and abiding friendship; that was what she felt for him, she'd said; and that was _all_ she felt for him. No less, and no more.

For a short time after that he'd been hopeful that her decision regarding Jester's affections might have been influenced in some way by _him_ – by his increased presence in her life since moving into the castle on a full-time basis. But things had gone on in much the same way as they ever had, and his hopes had faded.

What had not faded was the memory of the expressions Jane and Jester had worn that day in the garden. The devastation in Jester's eyes – and the pity in Jane's.

He would not be pitied like that. He would rather die.

At least, that was what he had told himself until… well, until right now.

Now everything was overshadowed by the anxiety that had been growing in him all day. It bothered him, it bothered the _hell_ out of him that by calling on her he was going to be making himself vulnerable.

But that wasn't going to stop him from doing it.

Because as bad as that would be, it was no longer the worst thing he could imagine happening. No, he'd been imagining _many_ worse scenarios recently, and especially after the disastrous banquet last night.

The way that piece of filth had looked at Jane, _his_ Jane – it made his teeth clench all over again.

The truth was that Gunther's priorities were shifting at a profound level. The worst things he could imagine no longer had to do with his own potential rejection or humiliation. They had to do with Jane – with things _happening_ to Jane, should he fail to protect her.

So he took a deep breath, raised his hand, and knocked.

OOOOO

There was, of course, no answer.

Gunther waited a moment, then knocked again. Still nothing.

Muttering darkly to himself, he closed his hand around the handle, and tried it. It turned and the door swung open.

The room inside was completely empty. And completely immaculate.

And that was when Gunther began to really be afraid.

It was something about the unnatural, almost sterile cleanliness of it all.

It was difficult to explain. It was not that Jane was a dirty person, or that she didn't take care of her things. To the contrary, her armor, equipment, and (on the rare occasions that she rode horses rather than Dragon) her _steeds_ were cared for meticulously. It was just that… she didn't strike Gunther as the sort of person to spend a lot of time on keeping her bedroom in spotless order. The other times he'd been in here had confirmed that impression. Her room had not been filthy, but it had been _lived_ in – the bedclothes rumpled, personal effects strewn randomly about. Jane simply had too many things to do outside this room, which she really only used for sleeping, to waste time tidying and straightening in _here_.

Granted, he'd only been in here a couple of times before, and that had been years ago. But there had been no radical changes in Jane's personality or demeanor since then, nothing that would suggest that she was anything other than the same person she had been (and he had loved) for so long… untidy bedroom and all.

"Jane," he said, into the still, somehow heavy air, not expecting an answer because it was obvious that the room was empty save for him. Empty and… forlorn, somehow.

Bereft.

The room – the way it was now – he couldn't help but think that it felt like a farewell.

Like she had fully expected it to be discovered by someone else.

Like _she_ had never expected to see it again.

"Jane," he said again, and now he could _taste_ his encroaching panic; it tasted suspiciously like bile, trying to rise in his throat. Her personal armor and weapons, he noticed distantly, were all in their accustomed places. Wherever she was - and he was becoming increasingly sure with each passing second that she had indeed left the safe confines of the castle - wherever she was, she was completely unprotected. "What have you done?"

Then he was out the door and running, flat-out running, for the forge.

OOOOO

"Smithy!" he half-shouted, half-gasped as he skidded to a stop in front of the fair-haired man, who was just leaving the forge, presumably on his way to dinner.

"Gunther?" Sudden alarm colored Smithy's voice. Just a glance at the young knight was enough to confirm that something was seriously amiss.

"Is anything missing?" Gunther demanded, impatient and out of breath. When Smithy looked blank, he elaborated, his words nearly tumbling over one another in his haste. "Weapons, armor, _horses_ – is there anything unaccounted for?"

"No," Smithy said slowly. Gunther could see that he was running through a mental checklist as he spoke. "I've taken daily stock of the equipment lately, since – well you know, since there has been trouble afoot. Everything is accounted for." Then, just as Gunther began to relax somewhat, Smithy said, "Oh, except..."

And his heart dropped to his feet.

Gunther had never had anything against Smithy, but at the moment it was all he could do to keep from grabbing the man and _shaking_ him.

"Except _what?_" he asked, trying very hard to keep his voice steady.

"Except, there _was_ a horse gone for a while late this morning," Smithy said thoughtfully. "Someone must have taken him while I was off on an errand, for I never noticed he was missing until he returned on his own around midday. I thought it passing strange, but not enough to mention to anyone. After all, he was home and unharmed. A little spooked, perhaps, but –" he shrugged. "I rubbed him down and put him away."

When Gunther spoke next, it was through clenched teeth. "Show me the beast, please. And whatever equipment was on him when he returned. Are you certain no armor or weapons are gone?"

Smithy frowned at him. "None. Everything that should be here is here. And of course I will show you the horse and tack, Gunther, but can I at least ask what this is about?"

Gunther took a shaky breath. "Jane. Jane is –" he could hardly speak the words. He swallowed hard and choked them out.

"I think she is gone."

OOOOO

Smithy barely missed a beat, then he was leading Gunther briskly toward the stables, murmuring meaningless reassurances about how there had to be an explanation, and she couldn't have gone very far at any rate.

Gunther barely heard him. The volume of his own thoughts had ratcheted up to an anguished, headache-inducing pitch;

_I let her go. I let her go! I knew something was off, something was not right, I knew it THEN, and I let her go anyway! I might as well have saddled the blasted horse FOR her! This is ALL my fault, my fault, my fault…_

He wasn't a bit surprised when Smithy led him straight to Shadowdancer's stall; it merely confirmed what he'd already felt, already known. The horse was Jane's favorite by far. When Smithy indicated which of the riding gear had been on Shadowdancer when he'd returned, Gunther ran his fingers over it and came away holding a single strand of flame-colored hair that had gotten caught in the bridle.

He felt – vaguely, distantly – Smithy's arm clasp his shoulder, heard him say, "Steady on, Gunther, I am sure she just –"

The rest of the statement was swept away by the strange rushing sound in Gunther's ears.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from that single strand of hair. His had was fisted around it so tightly his knuckles were white; so tightly that it hurt. Without any conscious awareness of what he was doing, he raised his fist and pressed it to his forehead, which was pounding now. He could barely breathe.

"Jane," he croaked.

He could not imagine where she'd gone or why, but he knew – on a fundamental level he knew – that this was bad. Worse than bad. This was catastrophic.

He realized dimly that he was shaking. The strand of Jane's hair was hanging directly in front of his eyes now. The color didn't look so much like fire to him anymore.

It looked like blood

Slowly, very slowly, Smithy's words began to once more penetrate the fog that had encompassed his mind.

"– never leave on her own, Gunther, not with the castle in danger, you know that, don't you? Not Jane. She would not desert us this way. There has to be more to this, Gunther, there _has_ to be. Jane –"

"Ordered," Gunther said then in a voice between a creak and a whisper, the wheels in his head beginning to turn again now, and turn fast.

"What?" Smithy asked.

"Ordered," Gunther said again. "She would not leave unless she was ordered, and there is only one person with the power to order her away."

He raised his eyes to Smithy, and what Smithy saw there caused him to take a quick step backward.

"Gunther," the blond man said cautiously, "I think you should –"

"I am going to find out where she went," Gunther said with terrible, deceptive calm. "I am going to disembowel anyone who has hurt her. And then I am going to kill her. I am going to _kill _her for leaving me in the dark like this."

He turned and made for the castle keep. It was where Cuthbert would be supping at this hour.


	9. Chapter 9

Fire.

Her back was on fire. Her _arms_ were on fire. Her throat was so raw that with every breath she took it felt as if she was _swallowing _fire.

So how was it that she was also horribly, teeth-rattlingly, bone-achingly _cold?_

There was a reason, but she couldn't remember what it was. Her mind was as sluggish and numb as her body and no matter how she tried, she just couldn't get it to obey her. The true circumstances of her situation _were_ there, on the edges of her consciousness – (her back was on fire because she'd been whipped; her arms were on fire because she was suspended by them; she was cold because it was night and her shirt – what little was left of it – was pasted to her body in bloody strips) – but her mind stubbornly skittered around the very outer periphery of this knowledge, flatly refusing to confront it straight on.

Then it was time to breathe again.

The scratching, scraping pain of inhaling the cold air made her head spin.

At least she was alone, though. At least, some time ago (she'd lost track of the passage of time in any meaningful sense, but she thought it had to have been an hour ago or more) the shouting, whistling, jeering crowd has dispersed. And rather quickly, too. There had been some sort of commotion and then they'd been running, _all_ of them; as if something far more pressing had caught their collective interest.

So, there was that much to be thankful for. She was alone in her agony, at least.

And then she wasn't.

She smelled him as he sidled up to her, where she was suspended by her wrists from the iron ring that was embedded near the top of Edgar's weathered, blood-bathed whipping post. He smelled ten times more foul than Edgar himself; a feat she would not have previously thought possible. Then a thin but wiry arm was snaking around her, a hand clenching in her hair; jerking her head back and around until she and her new tormentor were practically nose-to-nose.

Jane's stomach twisted at the man's smell; rank sweat and rotten teeth and cheap liquor. She had to fight the urge to throw up.

"Well, here she is," he sneered, his face mere inches from her own. She thought she maybe recognized him as one of her erstwhile guards. "The little she-knight her very self. Did you know there is a dragon on the loose, she-knight?" Jane's breath caught as the man continued, "the same wretched beast that has been flying over us daily – finally decided to attack, it seems. Over on the other side of camp. Everyone has gone to try to fight the damned thing off, but I thought –" a slow, leering smile spread across his face – "I thought, why endanger myself fighting a dragon, when I can stay behind and get to know _you_ a little better, eh? Maybe finish what the king started, even. He need not ever know. This can stay strictly between us, what do you say? Not going to knee _me_, are you, little girl? Got some sense whipped into you, hm?"

Jane yanked her head free; turned her face away from him, feeling sick on every level of her being. She couldn't stop him, not hurt and weak and restrained as she was. Couldn't even knee him with enough force to do anything other than royally piss him off. She'd never felt so utterly helpless in her life.

The man chuckled wetly, seeming to sense Jane's hopelessness; her resignation. He let go of her hair, but only so that he could have freer access to her body. As one hand slid down her side to rest with casual possessiveness on her hip, he dragged the fingers of his other hand slowly down her throat, over her collarbone, and then lower; his face nuzzling against her neck, burrowing into her, beginning to suck, to _bite_ as his breathing quickened, quickened – and then, abruptly, caught.

His whole body jerked stiff against her for a second, and then with a low, wet groan he fell away from her, collapsing to the ground to lie twitching and gurgling with an arrow through his throat.

Jane stared down in disbelieving shock.

Somewhere nearby now, she made out the rhythmic pounding of footsteps approaching at a run. She thought she recognized the sound of them, just as she thought she recognized the shaft of the arrow that had killed her assailant.

But things were sliding out of focus now. The world seemed suddenly to be tilting alarmingly to one side, her body wracked by great, heaving shudders that had begun when the soldier's hands, his filthy rotted _mouth_, made contact with her skin, and then it seemed to Jane that she was falling, even though she knew that she was not.

OOOOO

"Jane, let go."

She struggled back toward awareness to the sound of a voice that she knew; a voice she'd never thought she would hear again.

_It is a trick. It is not him. How _could_ it be?_

She shook her head. She couldn't let go. She'd fall if she did. It wasn't really Gunther and she'd fall if she did.

The voice was persistent though.

"Jane? _Jane_. You have to let _go_. Jane, you are safe. I have you. Let go."

"Leave… leave me… alo… hone," she managed between painful breaths and chattering teeth. Gunther _could not_ be here; it simply wasn't possible, and she was not going to give in to hallucinations. She wasn't sure exactly when she had managed to actually grab hold of the iron ring to which she'd been secured, but holding onto it had helped her endure the lashing she'd taken, and she was not going to be tricked into letting go of it now. Solid and hard and freezing cold, it seemed like the only thing that was anchoring her to reality anymore. "Go… fall on… a sword."

"_JANE!_" Well, the exasperation in the voice seemed real enough. "We do not have time for this! Will you _let the damn thing go!_"

Somehow it was the very frustration and impatience in the voice that convinced her to trust it. She still didn't understand how Gunther could actually be here. But it honestly did sound like him. And if she were going to _imagine_ herself a Gunther, after all, she rather thought she would imagine a kinder one.

So maybe that meant… could it really be?

With concentrated effort, she pried her frozen fingers off the metal of the ring.

He must have already undone the bindings, because she started to slip toward the ground.

And then he had her, just as he had promised. He didn't let her fall.

OOOOO

"Jane." The arms that were wrapped around her were solid, strong and warm. They felt like salvation. Even so, she registered dimly that he seemed to be shaking, almost as hard as she was herself.

"Jane?" She was being lowered then. A second later they were both on their knees, and he was turning her in his arms, turning her to face him. She blinked hard, even as she was struggling to keep herself upright; to keep from simply collapsing against him altogether. His face was swimming before her eyes, his expression appearing to be equal parts fury and fear.

"Gun… Gunther?" she whispered incredulously, still unable to quite credit her senses.

His grey eyes narrowed. It appeared that fury was winning out. His thumb skated over her lips, which were swollen and cracked; split from where Edgar had hit her… then followed the shape of the bruise that was spreading up her cheek. He hissed a breath in through his teeth when he caught sight of the cut on her neck where the guard's dagger had bitten into her. His mouth wrenched violently downward.

"They held a knife to you," he said flatly. She nodded slowly, feeling drugged and stupid with the cold and pain; drinking him in all the while with her eyes, hardly daring to believe that he was real. That he was _here_.

How could he have found her? _How?_

Gunther wasn't about to leave her alone with her thoughts, though. "What else did they do?" he demanded harshly. Another shudder ripped through her. She didn't want to _think_ about what had been done, what had almost been done, what had been _intended_ to be done. She didn't want to think about any of it. She wanted to go home. And sleep. And heal.

And then she wanted another chance to face off against Edgar, on a more even playing field this time. With her arms free of restraint, and her sword in her hand.

She wanted all of that, but what she did not want, at this precise moment in time, was to enter into a discussion with Gunther about everything she'd just been through. She didn't think she could so much as open her mouth without vomiting.

But he wasn't giving up.

"Jane, damn it, I need to know." He caught her under the chin, gently but implacably, turning her face up to his just as he had in the castle garden after her audience with the king. How long ago had that been? She was vaguely, weakly astonished to think that less than a day had passed since then. It felt like it had been a lifetime ago.

"Tell me. Jane, did – Edgar, did he –" he seemed to be having trouble forming his own words, and there was a feverish light in his grey eyes. Jane was having a hard time holding onto her thoughts, but it occurred to her to wonder whether he might not have been hurt somehow as well. That thought hurt _her _on a new, deep level. But before she could give voice to it, he finally choked out, "Did he force himself on you?"

_Oh, God_. So _that _was what he was asking. She finally understood, and the memory of that kiss – that horrible, rough, wet, humiliating, _dirty_ kiss – exploded across her consciousness, overwhelming in its intensity.

_It was meant for you. Oh Gunther, I am so sorry, I wanted to give it to YOU!_

Then there was murder in his eyes, and she knew he had read her thoughts in the expression on her face. She opened her mouth to say – she knew not what, really – and then the nausea overwhelmed her, as she had feared that it might. She had just time to wrench herself away from him, to turn to the side before it swept her away completely and she was retching, retching, _retching_ into the mud.

Her body heaved until she had nothing left to bring up, and still she couldn't seem to stop herself, doubling over as dry-heaves continued to wrack her, the whole slim length of her shaking with cold and hurt and exhaustion and shock, just barely aware of Gunther holding her up; one arm bracing her, keeping her from collapsing into her own sick as his other hand gathered her hair back, holding it out of her face and all the while he was saying her name, just her name, over and over again, _Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane_.

When she was finally spent he pulled her against his chest, wrapping something soft and warm around her as he did so; she couldn't tell what it was because her eyes had fallen shut and she couldn't seem to summon the energy to open them again, but whatever it was, it smelled of him.

She was being lifted and carried then, carried like a child, and the last thing she remembered with any clarity was the sound of his voice speaking quietly in her ear.

"Jane, if you can hear me, then know this; he is mine. I swear to you, I swear to _God_, Jane, that bastard is _mine_."

It was, without question, the single most dangerous-sounding voice she'd ever heard.


	10. Chapter 10

There had been vague, half-formed impressions of being carried, of being lifted, of feeling a horse beneath her. Of galloping hooves, and speed, and Gunther's voice in her ear, telling her that they were going home. There had been a dim, unsettled concern about Dragon. Where was he? Was he all right? Why wasn't he _here?_

And now she was being lifted again, lifted _down_ this time, and there were running footsteps and torchlight and voices shouting and bits and pieces of questions and answers – "Gunther, Gunther!" and "Did you find her?!" and "Is she all right?" and "Fetch bandages and ointment, warm water too; quick!" and "Oh, Jane, no!"

She thought she heard Pepper's voice, and her father's. There were snippets of other conversations as well, words flying all around her as she was carried indoors – "Cuthbert doing now?" and "How many answered the call?" and "Message to the queen?" and "_Yes_ I am going back, of _course_ I am going back!"

Those last words were Gunther's, and they sparked a dull, sick fear in her.

One of her arms was caught, trapped between her body and his, but she raised her other arm and balled her fist against his shoulder, clenching it in the fabric of his shirt as if by doing so she could hold onto him, keep him close to her.

She felt Gunther falter in his gait; felt his arms tighten around her almost convulsively. Then he was moving again, even more quickly now. "Jane," he murmured. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

She nodded her head where it lay in the crook of his arm; cracked her eyes open, seeking his face. Then she was being eased down, turned at the same time, so that a second later she found herself flat on her stomach on a slightly yielding surface. She tried not to let go of Gunther's shirt, but she lacked the strength to hold on when he disengaged.

"Gunther!" Panic took her and she half-whispered, half-croaked his name, trying to push herself up again. Her body was having none of it. A wave of vertiginous pain swept her from head to foot, and for a moment she was sure she was going to start retching again, for all that she had nothing left to expel. She groaned and curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her middle. She was still shivering; harder, now, in fact – now that Gunther had let her go; now that she was deprived of his warmth.

Then he was there again, strong hands and a steady voice beside her in this room that was too loud, too bright, and _far _too cold. She managed to catch one of those hands – warm and calloused and familiar from a thousand training sessions with wooden practice swords – and held on; felt him lace his fingers through hers and squeeze back. Some of her panic subsided. Wherever he was planning to go, he couldn't very well leave so long as she had a firm grip on him.

For a while her consciousness ebbed and flowed like a tide, waves of grey dragging her under for a minute, two, five… and then she'd struggle back to awareness, back to the solidity of Gunther's hand clenched in her own. Voices broke and receded over her like waves on a beach.

Eventually she felt the soft thing that Gunther had wrapped her in – (_cloak,_ she thought groggily,_ it must have been his cloak… now it will be all bloody, and he _loves_ that cloak_) – being unwound; tugged free. Losing its warmth felt like dying.

There were more hands on her then, pulling her gently but insistently out of her fetal position, straightening her. Peeling and cutting away her ruined clothing. She gave a choked cry when the shreds of fabric were stripped free of her ravaged back, to which they had become glued by blood. Gunther's hand tightened on her own.

"Ungh, no... Guh – Gunther… make it _stop!_" It was strange; she hadn't let herself cry out when the lashes had been given to her, but she couldn't seem to stop herself now. She was home, her guard was down, she was tired, so _tired_… and she couldn't hold herself together any longer. She tried to wrench free of the hands that were causing her such pain, but to no avail. She didn't have the strength.

"Jane, you are bleeding," Gunther murmured beside her. "Your back has to be cleaned and bandaged. It is almost done." A second later, when another sobbing cry was torn out of her, she heard him snap, "Damn it, Pepper, do you have to _hurt_ her like this!?"

"I am sorry, Gunther." Pepper's gentle voice floated down to Jane. She sounded shaken almost to the point of tears. "It has to be done or infection could set in. I am being as careful as I can."

Then another blast of pain ripped through her and for while, things went dark.

OOOOO

The next thing she was aware of was Gunther pulling his hand free of hers.

"No," she rasped, tightening her fingers, but to no avail. A second later he was gone.

"Gunther!"

"Shh." She forced her eyes open to find him kneeling beside where she still lay, face-down, her vision obscured by her hair, which had fallen across her eyes. He pushed it gently back, smoothing it out of her face. "Jane, you are safe. Pepper is looking after you, and there is something I need to do. I will be back as soon as I can."

"No…" He hardly looked fit to cross the garden, much less embark on the dangerous errand that she suspected he had in mind. His face was drawn, his eyes tired, grim… but determined. "Gunther –"

"I _will _come back to you, Jane. I swear it. Now rest." And then he did something so extraordinary that she would wonder, the next time she woke, whether it hadn't been simply a product of her overwrought, fevered mind.

He pressed his lips to her temple, briefly, but hard. It sent Jane reeling.

And before she could even fully process what he had just done, he was gone.

She panicked. Shoved herself upward despite her body's immediate protestations. A quick glance around revealed that she had been placed on a cot in the small alcove off the kitchen that Pepper had inhabited before she'd married Rake and been granted more spacious – and _private_ – accommodations.

Apart from her, the alcove was empty.

"Gunther!" She tried to shout, but it came out as little more than a hoarse whisper.

She swung her feet over the side of the cot, registering as she did so that her entire torso was bandaged now, nearly from shoulders to hips. Outside in the courtyard rose a sudden clatter of hoofbeats.

_Gunther!_

She knew it was a mistake to try to stand. She was aware enough of her own body that she knew it beyond doubt.

She tried anyway.

And then the floor was rushing up to meet her, and everything went dark again.

OOOOO

She woke to the sound of soft singing and the sight, when she opened her eyes, of Pepper in the kitchen, stirring something in a large bowl with her baby on her hip. Watery pre-dawn light streaked the room dull grey.

Jane was back on the cot in the alcove; someone must have lifted her onto it because she distinctly remembered collapsing to the floor right before she'd passed out again. She clamped down on a groan as she tried to sit up; Pepper heard her anyway and hurried over.

"Oh Jane, you are awake!" Pepper put the baby on the floor where he sat and gazed solemnly at Jane with his mother's selfsame large, dark eyes. "How do you feel?" Pepper asked anxiously. "Are you in very much pain? Is there anything you need?"

"Water," Jane croaked. She was parched.

"Oh, of course!" Pepper fairly flew across the room and returned with a cup of cold water. "This is why Gunther brought you here," she said, handing it to Jane, "to the kitchen, I mean, instead of your own room. So that there would be easier access to clean water when we were bandaging you, and to different ingredients for poultices, and… and oh Jane, you had us all so frightened last night!"

Jane lowered the now-empty cup. "I am sorry, Pepper. I –"

"Do not _dare_ apologize!" The force of Pepper's response was astonishing to Jane. "You have nothing to apologize for, you were put in a hideous position, we all know about it now. Oh Jane, I am so, so sorry for what you have been through. You must have felt so alone!" Pepper actually looked on the verge of tears.

"I… I do not understand," Jane said numbly. "No one was to know. I was told that no one was to know. How, Pepper? How do you know?"

"It was Gunther," Pepper said simply, as if this should have been the most patently obvious thing in the world. "He figured it out, and confronted the king about it right at supper! Jane, you should have seen him! He was like a madman."

OOOOO

So it was from Pepper that Jane learned of the events that had preceded her rescue. Pepper had been in the dining hall serving the young king when Gunther had burst in, Smithy at his heels, demanding to know where Jane had been sent. It had been the first Pepper had known about Jane's having gone _anywhere_. Cuthbert had flushed nearly purple and spluttered out that Jane's orders were between him and _Jane_, and that he had absolutely no obligation either to explain or justify _anything_ to Gunther.

At which point, Pepper said, Gunther had actually _advanced_ on Cuthbert, reaching for his sword as he did so. Cuthbert had shouted for Ivon and Theodore, who along with Pepper had been witnesses to the entire exchange, to seize Gunther – and Gunther had shouted back furiously that no one would _need_ to seize him if Cuthbert would just tell him where the _hell_ Jane had gone, NOW!

He'd then stood there glaring daggers at Cuthbert, breathing hard, one hand resting perilously close to the hilt of his sword, as the young king shouted, again, for him to be apprehended. Sirs Ivon and Theodore had looked from Cuthbert to Gunther to each other and back to Cuthbert again. Then Theodore, clearly disturbed, had said, "I was given to understand that Jane was sick in bed. If this is in fact a fallacy, then I for one would also like to know just exactly where she _is_."

And that was when the whole, sordid truth had finally come out.

"You should have seen Gunther's face," Pepper confided. "He went so pale so fast, I thought for a moment that he was going to fall down. I have _never_ seen a man lose color like that. He looked… positively stricken."

A moment of stunned silence had followed Cuthbert's revelation – and then Ivon, aghast, had said, "But… do you not understand that you have _killed_ the lass!?" This had been followed quickly by the slithery steel sound of a sword being unsheathed, loud in the unnatural stillness of the room.

Gunther had drawn his blade with shaking hands.

"_No!_" Instinctively, Ivon and Theodore had leapt in front of the king, reaching for their own weapons. "Gunther, this is not the answer," Theodore had said, trying for calm despite the fact that he was clearly shaken as well. "Drop your sword, _now!_"

"That is exactly what I intended," Gunther had spat, and to the astonishment of everyone present, had hurled his sword to the flagstone floor at Cuthbert's feet. He had looked from Theodore, to Ivon, to Cuthbert himself. "The highest directives of the Knights' Code are to serve one's sovereign with one's life, and to willfully do no wrong. I never thought I would see the day when those two directives would come into direct conflict with each other, but here I stand. I can no longer serve a king who would willfully commit such a heinous wrong. I am no longer this king's knight."

He had turned, made for the door, then stopped. Spun back. "I am going after Jane," he had virtually snarled, locking eyes once more with Cuthbert, "and God _help_ you if she has been harmed. You know damn well what Edgar wanted her for; you knew it when you sent her. It is fortunate that your mother and sister are so far removed from this… _fiasco _you call a court. Given half a chance, you probably would have sold _them_ to Edgar too."

Then there had been chaos.

Gunther's parting shot had been intended to enrage the adolescent king, and it had hit its mark beautifully. With what could only be described as a howl, Cuthbert had shoved past Theodore, grabbed for the sword on the floor, and lunged at Gunther. After that, Pepper became a little fuzzy on the details.

There had been a confusion of running, shouting, scuffling; Cuthbert had been restrained by Ivon, screaming for Gunther to _come back, you coward, come back and say that to my face_ – but by then Gunther had been taking the steps to Jane's tower room three at a time, vanishing inside to reappear seconds later on the roof, Jane's Dragon Sword in hand.

A blur of activity had followed. Ivon barreling out of the throne room, shouting for runners; Dragon arriving, nearly taking out an entire section of wall in his haste, anxiety deepening to outright panic in his golden eyes when he'd realized that it had been Gunther, not Jane, who had summoned him. And then his rage when Gunther had appraised him of the situation in a few succinct sentences. The dead, black fury in Dragon's voice when he had swung his head toward the dining hall, speaking three short words only; "Cuthbert dies now."

Gunther risking his own life by throwing himself in front of Dragon, shouting that Cuthbert could wait, this was about Jane – _Jane, Dragon! We have to get to JANE!_

And through it all, Sir Theodore still in the dining hall, speaking quietly and earnestly to Cuthbert, who had collapsed back into his chair and had his elbows planted on his knees, his head dropped forward and cradled in his hands. When Ivon had stuck his head back into the room and bellowed, "_Well!?_" Cuthbert had nodded, just barely, once.

Theodore had looked around. "Yes. Send the runners. Sound the alarm. Summon every man who will come."

OOOOO

"So Dragon created a diversion at the camp while Gunther slipped in to find you, and the men of the kingdom are massing to attack the invaders at dawn," Pepper finished. "And now, Jane –" she stood and in the same fluid moment scooped up the baby, who looked on the verge of dozing off right there on the floor – "I think Ced and I will let you get some rest. You must not underestimate the importance of sleep to the healing process, you – _what_ are you doing!?"

Jane paused in the act of struggling out of bed. "You said they planned to attack the invading camp at dawn."

"Yes…"

"Pepper! It _is_ dawn! You cannot possibly think that I am just going to lie here while everyone else _fights!_"

"That is exactly what I think! Look at you, Jane, you cannot even sit up properly!"

"I do not care! I can walk this off! Pepper – Dragon is there! Gunther! Their lives are in danger! I _have_ to go, I have to – "

"To what!?" Standing over Jane with her baby planted on one hip and her fist on the other, Pepper looked uncharacteristically formidable. "There is nothing constructive you can do on a battlefield, in the state you are in! You would only be a distraction to those who care for you; a _liability_, Jane! Is that what you want? _Is_ it!?"

"No, but… oh, God." Jane's green eyes were beseeching. "Pepper… _help_ me."

Pepper sighed. Placed the baby carefully back on the floor. "I am _trying_ to help you, Jane," she said softly, sinking down on the edge of the cot. She put her hands on Jane's shoulders and pushed gently yet inexorably down, forcing Jane to lie back.

"I am trying to help you," the dark-haired girl repeated, "whether you want my brand of help or not. For once in my life, I am stronger than you, and I will sit on top of you, Jane, if that is what is required to keep you in this bed. Do you understand me? Now _rest_."

Jane opened her mouth to reply, but the truth was, she was incredibly drowsy in spite of herself. She had almost been on her feet a moment ago, and if she'd managed to get up then the momentum of that act might have propelled her on for a while; but now that she was lying down again the darkness was pressing on her. Heavy; insistent.

"Pepper, you… you do not understand," she whispered, marginally aware that her words were beginning to slow, to slur together. "I love… I love him. Oh, God help me… I… love…"

The darkness was claiming her. The last thing she heard before it carried her away entirely was Pepper's voice saying quietly, "I understand better than you think, Jane. Rake is there too, after all."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Wow, thanks for the hundred reviews, you guys! You all ROCK!! :-) -K**

OOOOO

_Jane stared around herself in horror. The carnage was appalling. There were bodies everywhere. Invaders, defenders… it ceased to matter in death. Their blood all ran the same color, soaking the muddy ground a ghastly crimson-black. The tragedy of so many lives lost was overwhelming._

_Slowly, she began picking her way through the nightmarish landscape, her eyes moving restlessly from one mangled body to the next, searching for anything – any_one_ – familiar amid this human wreckage. And praying, even as she searched, to find nothing._

_Her prayers were not heard. One after another she found them in the muck; beloved face after beloved face. Rake. Smithy. Jester. She thought her heart would break. But that wasn't the end of it; worse was yet to come._

_Her legs failed her when she found her father, lying in a pool of his own congealing blood, empty eyes reflecting the stormy, turbulent sky. Her quiet, gentle, methodical, scholarly father; how could he have been destined for an end like this?_

(He _wasn't _destined to die this way. This is because of _me. _He had to fight because I couldn't.)

_Even this grief__ was eclipsed by her anguish a moment later though, as, kneeling beside him, she raised her streaming eyes to the horizon – only to notice a body that she had somehow missed before. _

_A body roughly the size and color of a small, grassy hill._

"_NO – !!"_

_She was running then, scrambling to her feet and running before she'd even realized that she was moving at all; running to Dragon._

"_No, no, no, oh Dragon, no!" It was as she buried her face in his flank, sobbing, that she heard the sounds of combat behind her. Her chest hitching to the point where she could barely breathe, she spun around._

_There was a single pair of combatants left, battling their way with locked swords over the treacherous, corpse-strewn ground. _

_It was Gunther and Edgar, of course._

_Her heart leapt at the sight of Gunther still on his feet amidst so much death and destruction, but her relief was short-lived. He looked beyond horrible – exhausted, and ashen, and bleeding from a dozen minor wounds, scrapes, and abrasions; his reflexes were shot, he was struggling to hold his own, and even as she watched, Edgar was gaining the upper hand. _

No! No no no, oh God please no_ – Frantic, Jane cast around for a weapon. A bloodied sword lay nearby, half wedged beneath a fallen soldier. By the time she'd tugged it free, though, it was too late._

_Things were moving too fast. Just as Jane looked up again, sword in hand, Gunther stumbled. Jane saw Edgar move to take advantage of this moment of vulnerability, and screamed a warning – which only served to distract Gunther further. _

(Just like Pepper said, oh God, she _said _that this would happen!)

_His head jerked toward the sound of her voice_,_ and so it was that his eyes locked on Jane's just as Edgar struck the fatal blow, driving his sword hilt-deep into Gunther's chest._

_He looked down for a second at the blade embedded in his body, then raised his eyes to Jane's again. He looked… puzzled more than anything in that moment, puzzled and sad. His lips moved and she had a sense that he was trying to say her name, but no sound came out. His sword fell from his hand, clanging dully as it hit the ground. _

_Jane was running then, running, running, and not seeming to get any closer at all. Edgar for his part yanked his sword free and stepped back, knowing that Gunther was as good as dead, content to let nature take its course. Gunther, his grey eyes never leaving Jane's, took a single, staggering step toward her, and then his legs gave out, spilling him to his knees. Still running, still no closer to reaching him, Jane watched helplessly as the light in those eyes flickered… flickered… dimmed_…

And then she woke up, screaming.

OOOOO

She rocketed into a sitting position, strangling the cry in her throat. She was drenched in cold sweat, heart and head pounding in time with each other, breath coming so shallow and rapid that she halfway felt as if she was hyperventilating. Violent chills were assaulting her, making it clear that she was running a temperature, and probably a substantial one at that.

She sat there for several minutes gulping in air, taking stock of her body and her situation. She was sure she had cried out upon waking, but there was no sign of Pepper and so Jane concluded that her friend must be off on some errand or other, out of earshot. The pain in her back had subsided, as long as she remained relatively still, to a constant, fiery ache… but when she flexed her muscles experimentally, it ratcheted back to an agony so intense that it made her breath catch in her throat and tiny starbursts bloom before her eyes.

Trying to banish the pain from the very front of her consciousness, Jane focused on assessing the nature of the light that was filtering into the kitchen through the room's high windows. The light suggested that it was midday, but midday of _what _day? Had it been a few hours since her dawn conversation with Pepper, or had more than a whole day passed? Was it possible that the battle was still being waged, or had it already been decided, for better or worse, in her absence? She had no idea; Pepper was not there to tell her, and while in her stupor she had lost all concept of the passage of time.

Already her memories of the previous night, from the time that Gunther had found her on, were fading – leaking substance, losing form. One thing that was perfectly clear, however, was the dream from which she had just awoken. It hovered at the forefront of her mind with an urgent immediacy that was unlike anything she had ever experienced before.

Rather than fading in the light of day as dreams usually do, the vile images that this particular night-horror had dredged up hung before her now with a terrible, haunting vibrancy. Her friends, her father, Dragon. Dead, all dead – and then _Gunther_. Gunther sliding silently, almost gracefully, to his knees. The sword slipping from his numbing fingers. And the light fading, fading, slowly but inevitably, out of those steel-grey eyes.

Had it only been a nightmare? The fevered product of a troubled mind? Or had it been something more, something infinitely worse – a vision or premonition of some kind?

_I have to get to him._

The thought was immediate, and absolute. It left no room for doubt or second-guessing. It left no room for hesitation or procrastination, either.

It didn't matter that she was hurt and sick. It didn't matter that she could barely move.

She had to get to him, and she had to get to him _now_.

OOOOO

**Interlude: Gunther**

OOOOO

Taking advantage of a momentary lull in the fighting, Gunther wiped his blade on the body of the invader he had just dispatched, shoved his sweat-soaked hair back out of his eyes, and glanced around himself, quickly assessing the battlefield. Like the breathing of some mighty beast or the ebb and flow of a tide, the combat was surging first in one direction, then in the other. Gunther swept his immediate area with his eyes, looking for any friendly faces nearby that might be in need of assistance.

Jester was fighting in the vicinity, but surprisingly enough (to Gunther, anyway) he was holding his own quite well. His natural, nearly acrobatic agility, swiftness and grace were compensating quite decently for his lack of formal combat training. He kept switching his weapon from one hand to the other with dexterous, lightning-quick speed, confounding his opponents as he fought equally well either way. He almost looked like he was _dancing_ as he wielded the short, light sword. Perhaps in a way he was.

Of course, it wasn't as if the invaders were any kind of highly trained crack fighting force, either. In truth, they were little more than an overlarge and heretofore over_confident_ band of brigands, who were finding the men of Kippernium to be considerably fiercer opponents than they had anticipated.

And then of course there was Dragon. Mustn't forget the fire-breathing dragon.

Overall, Gunther was cautiously optimistic that the tide of the battle might be starting to turn decisively in favor of the defenders.

Which was good, because he was tired, and sore – one of his shoulders, especially, which had been painfully wrenched when he'd deflected a particularly well-aimed and brutal blow. He had a gash along his side, too, which though shallow was bleeding quite freely; he hadn't had any time to bind it. He wondered briefly if there was enough time to dress the wound now, but then a sound from behind caused him to whirl about, just in time to meet a new attacker head-on. More cunning than most of his compatriots, this man had been in the act of sneaking up on Gunther – and had very nearly managed it.

_My guard is slipping_, he thought a moment later as this most recent foe lay twitching on the battle-churned ground. _The tide may be turning, but the battle is far from won. I need to get a hold of myself, and now_.

And so he employed a tactic that he had already used quite successfully several times in the course of the fighting thus far. All he had to do to ground and focus himself was close his eyes for a heartbeat's worth of time, and envision Jane.

The images that assailed him were crystal clear and staggeringly powerful. Jane's copper hair darkening to scarlet at the tips, where it had been pasted to her back by her own blood. Her split lip; the angry bruise spreading up the side of her face; and worse than any of it, the _expression_ on her face when he had asked… asked her…

God.

In that instant, he'd been able to read her like a book – and what he had seen in her eyes had ripped him apart. The memory of it caused a whole _new _set of images to spring up before him; and though these were pure conjecture, they were no less powerful for that. To the contrary, imagination can often be far worse _– _far _crueler_ _– _than fact.

He imagined Edgar striking the blow that had bruised her face so badly; imagined it dazing her for a moment, knocking the fight out of her long enough for the invading king to drag her down into the mud. He imagined her struggling, her arms bound and pinned helplessly beneath her, as fabric was ripped and shoved aside, Edgar positioning himself above her. He saw her shaking her head in a frantic, futile negation as she realized exactly what was to come; saw Edgar's large, grimy hand clamp over her mouth, muffling her scream as he drove himself in, her entire body arching with the shock and pain of his intrusion. And then, worse than all the rest combined, he imagined her eyes rolling back, her body going limp, her spirit and will to fight deserting her as Edgar continued to use, abuse and violate her exactly as he saw fit.

Then he had whipped her.

It was almost more than Gunther could stand and still retain his hold on sanity. Perversely, however, it was exactly the image he needed to call up in order to focus his mind and flood his _own _body with the energy he needed to keep battling on.

Opening his eyes again, he found that he was literally cold and shaking with rage.

That was good. Cold rage was better than hot fury. It was easier to channel into something productive. He was ready to wade back into the fray. He just needed opponents.

Some hundred yards away, Smithy was looking beleaguered. His size and strength made him fearsome in single combat, but now a handful of invaders had joined forces against him, intent on using cooperation as a means to take him down. He was very nearly surrounded. Gunther began to move toward him.

He would go to Smithy's aid.

And then, so help him _God_, he was going to find Edgar.

Or die trying.


	12. Chapter 12

Jane surveyed the battle scene spread out before her.

Large swaths of ground were now devoid of anything moving, and looked hauntingly like the images from her nightmare; trampled, blood-soaked earth randomly strewn with weapons and bodies.

But there was still fighting going on. It was just that it had all coalesced into a few "hotspots" where the remaining combatants continued to annihilate one another with grim, bloodthirsty determination. Clutching Shadowdancer's mane to help keep herself upright, Jane was skimming these small knots of men, searching for faces she knew.

She'd hardly been able to believe her luck at finding a couple of horses still in the stables, saddled and ready to go at that. Thinking quickly, she had reached the conclusion that they had been left for Pepper and anyone else still at the castle, in case a hasty evacuation became necessary. It seemed a likely precaution for the level-headed Sir Theodore to take.

Whatever the reason, Jane had been profoundly grateful, and hadn't felt too dastardly for taking Shadowdancer, because there were still two other horses left beside him. She would not be depriving Pepper of a means to flee, if – God forbid – that were ever to be warranted.

It had been all she could do to climb onto Shadowdancer's back. Then again, ever since swinging her feet over the edge of the cot, everything Jane had done had been one exercise in pain endurance after another.

Several times climbing the stairs to her bedroom, she'd had to stop, half-leaning, half-falling against the stone wall, as vertigo had swept over her and the steps had seemed to tilt beneath her, threatening to buck her right off. Once in her room, she had actually _wept_ as she'd dressed and girded herself; cried like a child, the pain had been so great, even in spite of the many layers of bandages Pepper had wound around and around her. As it was, she had been utterly unable to struggle into her heavy hauberk, and had ended up forgoing its considerable protection, leaving it lying in a forlorn little heap near the foot of her bed.

She'd looked for her Dragon Sword to no avail – it was gone. She'd remembered then, Pepper telling her that Gunther had taken it and used it to summon Dragon. He must have carried it with him into battle. Her fortune with the horses had not extended to weaponry; there had not been a single sword left in the castle armory.

Which was inconvenient, but certainly not a major deterrent. Jane simply left weaponless. She would pick up a sword when she reached the battlefield. They were sure to be lying scattered about on the ground, amongst the corpses like overripe fruit.

Mounting the horse had been more of a problem. It had taken her several tries to accomplish it, and twice she had very nearly blacked out. Once astride, she had virtually draped herself over the animal, lying nearly flat and hugging Shadowdancer's neck, panting and shivering.

Pepper had appeared as Jane had clattered into the courtyard, doubtless alerted by the sound of hooves, baby Cedric nestled on one hip and a kitchen knife clutched in the opposite hand. The way she'd been holding it had told Jane that it was not merely something she'd been in the act of using; she had grabbed it deliberately, for defense.

When she'd realized who it was on the horse, an expression of shocked incredulity had flashed across Pepper's face, to be replaced a heartbeat later by uncharacteristic fury. She'd dropped the knife and run for the horse, shouting Jane's name as she'd tried to seize the reins.

Thankfully, from Jane's perspective at least, due to the strong rapport she already had with Shadowdancer, she hadn't needed to do anything dramatic to urge him to move more quickly; a gentle nudge and murmured command had been all that was required. He'd broken first into a trot and then a canter, leaving the courtyard behind as Pepper had screamed after them, sounding close to tears. Jane had been sorry to have distressed her friend that way, but determined that nothing was going to keep her from battle.

And now here she was.

OOOOO

She had dismounted in order to try and secure a sword. She was beginning to wonder, now, whether that hadn't been a grievous mistake. As difficult as it had been for her to mount Shadowdancer once, she wasn't at all convinced that she'd be able to do it a second time.

Well, there was nothing for it now. She should have thought of that _before _she'd gotten down.

She saw a likely candidate, so far as swords went, lying in the muck a few feet away from her, and letting go of Shadowdancer's mane – (she only swayed on her feet for an instant; negligible, really) – she began to make her way toward it.

And then she saw something out of the corner of her eye that changed everything.

It was Gunther. And he was in trouble.

He was still on his feet, thank God. Still armed and fighting, thank God. But he was outnumbered, and while a pair of enemy soldiers kept him fully occupied with a frontal attack, a third man was edging around behind him.

Jane's blood ran cold.

She forgot all about the sword she'd been moving toward; forgot all about Shadowdancer behind her. In that instant there was nowhere to go but toward Gunther, and as quickly as she possibly could.

Remembering her dream, and the disastrous consequences of shouting a warning, she clamped down hard on the cry that wanted to escape her throat. She couldn't risk distracting him, and more than that, screaming would divert valuable energy.

Energy she needed for running.

The next few seconds really did have a surreal, nightmarish quality about them, but with one important difference. Unlike in her dream, she was actually covering ground now. Just a few heartbeats later, she crossed the swath of empty ground where she'd left Shadowdancer, and entered the "hotspot" – the seething, swearing, struggling knot of combatants – of which Gunther was a part.

She thought she might have heard a familiar voice shout her name practically at her elbow, but the voice was not Gunther's – he was still several yards ahead of her and completely unaware of her presence – and so she never even slowed. She simply continued in her frantic, headlong dash, and when a man fell beside her with a gurgling cry, Jane snatched his sword from his loosening grasp without so much as skipping a beat; passing it from her left hand to her right as she ran. All of her attention, all of her energy, was focused on reaching Gunther. Gunther. _Gunther_.

He was so outnumbered.

And she wasn't going to get there in time.

_No. NO! I will not see him fall before my eyes, I will not, I will not, I WILL NOT!_

Her back was screaming; the pain maddening, white-hot and searing, and each breath she took burned her, but she was running faster than she thought she ever had in her life; flying over the ground and shouldering friends and enemies alike out of her way with desperate, single-minded purpose.

The world had narrowed down to herself and Gunther; nothing else mattered. Not when Gunther was at stake. When Gunther was at stake, everything was at stake.

Gunther. _Was_. Everything.

She finally understood.

And if she lost him now, it would kill her.

_Death of me. That man is going to be the _death_ of me. _The thought seemed familiar. Had she thought it before?

She was closing the distance between them at breakneck speed, and still she feared – _knew_ – she'd be too late.

_No, no NO!_

Almost there.

Now, finally, at the last instant, when she could nearly reach out and touch him, she drew in breath to scream a warning – and then she was there, and it was too late to warn him anyway, because the enemy soldier behind him had raised his sword and just as it was about to fall, to drive into Gunther's unprotected back, Jane flung herself between him and the blade, slashing at the soldier's throat with her own weapon in the desperate hope that by cutting the man down, she would manage to steal some of the lethal momentum away from his blade.

It did not entirely happen that way.

She did open the soldier's throat with her sword, and he did let go his blade and fall… but not before that blade had embedded itself halfway to the hilt in _her_.

And then everything was slowing down.

The world had been a blur of speed and momentum just seconds before; and now, all of a sudden, reality had slowed to the point where she felt almost as if she were underwater – as if she were swimming through the air.

She managed to stay upright for a moment, dropping her own sword to the churned, bloody ground. Managed even to look down, and grasp the hilt of the sword that had buried itself in her. All of her combat training had stressed the fact that if one were to be run through, one should never, ever, _ever_ remove the embedded blade.

All of her training could go eat bog weevils.

She was not thinking critically at the moment. She just wanted this foreign object out out _out_ of her. She could feel her strength evaporating like water under the midday sun, but she had enough left to yank the offending weapon free. A tiny sound – just a sick little "huh" of expelled air – was wrenched from her lips as the sword slipped from her now-bloodied hands and fell at her feet.

Gunther, fully occupied, now in the act of dispatching one of his frontal assailants, still hadn't even realized she was there.

And that was when she staggered backward, crashing into him, back-to-back.

He grunted and stumbled forward before planting his feet, then half-turned to see who or what had knocked into him even as he lifted an arm to expertly deflect a blow from the side.

His dark grey eyes widened when he recognized Jane, now leaning almost all of her weight against him.

"_Jane!?_" There was unmistakable anger, as well as incredulity in his voice. "What the hell are you _doing_, you are lucky I did not run you _through!_ And – how did you even _GET_ here!? What are you –"

And then her legs began to buckle in earnest.


	13. Chapter 13

Her head was swimming now, but she still recognized the instant in which the incredulous anger was replaced by horrified comprehension. Suddenly the only thing he was shouting was her name. Well, her name and the word 'no'.

"_JANE!!_" She registered his left arm encircling her, halting her slow slide toward the ground and crushing her to his side as he continued to parry blows with his sword arm – he was fighting purely defensively now, fighting to protect them – to protect _her_.

"Jane, _Jane!_" She was slipping in his grasp; she couldn't help it. She dragged one of her own arms up – it felt like she was lifting it through molasses – and fisted a bloody hand in the material of his shirt. Her head fell against his shoulder.

His voice was raw panic. "Jane, no! No, Jane, damn it, _NO!_"

_I have not managed to save him at all, _she thought foggily. _I came here for nothing – worse than nothing. All I have managed to do is distract him and weigh him down. He will never survive fighting like this_…

"Gunther," she managed to force out, though speaking hurt just now; speaking hurt a _lot_. "Gunther, you cannot… fight like this… you can… not… you have… to let go… let me _go._"

"Never," he positively snarled. "I hate you for this, Jane, I HATE you for this and I will _never_ – let you – _GO!_"

The ground was starting to buck and tilt alarmingly beneath Jane's feet; the world to spin sickeningly. She clenched her eyes shut, but that just made the vertigo worse. She didn't want to hit the ground; she didn't think she'd get up again – _ever _– if she did. Still, she was determined.

She was not going to drag Gunther down.

No matter _what_ he said about it.

She gulped in a harsh, painful breath, bit her lip to ground herself, gathered all the strength she could... and then shoved away from him, hard, letting go of his shirt as she did so.

He tried to hold onto her, but her action had caught him off-guard and he was still occupied fighting for both of their lives. She fell away from him, Gunther uttering an inarticulate cry that seemed two parts rage, one part despair.

The pain that ripped through her when she hit the ground was spectacular. Had she really thought she'd been in pain before? The very idea seemed absurd now. She hadn't known what pain _was_ until this moment. She twisted onto her side at Gunther's feet and curled into the tightest little ball she could manage, knees to chest, as if by making herself as small as possible she could hide from some of the agony that was coursing through her.

Above her, Gunther was fighting on with renewed viciousness. The sounds of combat rolled over her as she fought to maintain consciousness. She was aware, though hazily, when he planted a foot on either side of her body, literally crouching over her in order to defend her. At one point she heard him shout, "_You WILL NOT touch her!_" followed by the scream of a man in mortal anguish.

After that, everything greyed out for a bit.

She came back to awareness with a jolt. Gunther was shouting her name. She wondered how long she'd been unresponsive, because it sounded as though he'd yelled himself hoarse.

"_Jane!_ Jane, Jane! _Damn_ you, woman, answer me! J –"

She raised her head an inch or two off the ground; swallowed and blinked hard, trying to bring her eyes back into focus. "Guhn… Gunther?" she managed to rasp.

'JANE!" He sounded _beyond_ furious now. Nearly every word he spoke was punctuated by the ringing of metal as the battle raged on and he continued to fight.

"Do not ever –" _crash!_ – "ever –" _clang!_ – "EVER frighten me like that again! You keep talking to me, Jane –" _death cry followed by the thud of someone falling quite near her_ – "I do not care whether it hurts, or how difficult it becomes; you just – keep – _talking!_"

He sounded mad enough to kill her.

"Wha… what do you want… me to say?" She could barely form the words. Her tongue felt thick, and thoroughly uncooperative.

"I could care less what you say, just _talk_, damn it, so I know you are _not dead!_"

She dragged in a hitching breath; it burned her. She couldn't keep her head up any longer. She managed to drag her arm out from beneath herself and crook it, dropping her head onto it instead back down to the muddy ground.

"Not next week, Jane," Gunther snarled down at her, "start talking to me, NOW!"

She had a hard time forming the words; an even harder time getting enough breath behind them to make them even borderline audible. But if this was what Gunther needed to keep him focused and fighting strong, then this was what Gunther would have. She even had a sudden inspiration what to say. Something she could recite be heart – that she wouldn't have to think too hard about.

"We… we are… Knights of the King's Guard," she gasped out, calling up words that Gunther had written when they'd been barely more than children. She had discovered his secret penchant for songwriting by accident one day, and as he had been acting more of a pest than usual just prior, she had teased him quite mercilessly.

Privately she had loved the song, committing every word of it to memory.

"We are… tough and… we are huh-hard."

"Oh, _God_, Jane." It sounded as if he were either choking or crying, or both at once. Jane put it down to exertion.

"When we… rat… rattle into battle, we can… we can… Gunther…"

The world was going grey again; she could feel reality slipping away from her.

"We can…" her voice was barely more than a whisper now. "We can terrify the… the cattle. We can down a dozen… flagon; we can… juh-joust with… with any…"

She trailed off. She couldn't help it. The darkness was lapping at her. She couldn't _fight_ it. It was pulling her under. And perhaps the most frightening thing was that she wanted to let it. She was so tired, so _tired_ –

"JANE!"

"Gunther," she croaked, "I am falling." That was what it felt like, even though she was vaguely, distantly aware that she was already on the ground. "I am falling, Gunther… help…"

"Jane, you have to hold on! Dragon is coming, I can _see_ him, he can see _ME!_ He is nearly here, Jane, do not let go now! Do you hear me, hold _ON!_"

"Dragon…?"

"Yes, Jane! _Do not give up!_"

And sure enough, a second or two later, she could make out the familiar _whump-whump_ sound of his wing-beats as he came in for a landing close at hand; followed a second later by that voice she knew and loved so well.

"You called me?" he was asking tersely.

_He must have used the sword again_, Jane thought foggily.

"Dragon!" Gunther shouted. "It is Jane! I do not know how, but she is here and she is hurt – hurt worse than when I left her!"

"_What!?_" Dragon's tone was suddenly dangerous. "I thought you said she was safe at the castle!"

"Damn it, she _WAS_ safe at the castle! Just give us some cover so that I can see how badly she is wounded!"

"Wounded? I am warning you, shortlife –" And then Dragon spotted her. She could tell by the change in his voice. "_JANE!!_" This was followed by a whooshing sound which Jane knew meant he had loosed an enormous gout of flame – which in turn was followed by a great many agonized screams.

Then Gunther was there, _right_ there, dropping to his knees beside her on the cold, churned ground, smelling of leather and sweat and blood; his voice loud and insistent, right in her ear, dragging her back to full awareness when all she really wanted to do anymore was give herself over to sleep.

She was so _very _sleepy and besides, being awake _hurt_. Gunther was here, and now _Dragon_ was here, both apparently safe; that was all she needed to know.

She wanted to let go; to let herself drift away.

And true to form, if it was something she wanted, Gunther was bound and determined to thwart it.

Typical.

He never _had_ let her take the easy way out. Of _anything_.

"Jane. Jane!" He slid a hand under her, locked his arms around her, and hauled her up into a half-sitting, half-kneeling position facing him. She choked out a cry at the fresh blast of pain that rolled like a sickness through her body.

She felt herself listing to the side and flung out an arm to brace herself against the ground; the other arm she wrapped around her midsection, covering her wound. Gritting her teeth against the darkness, she raised her glassy, shocked green eyes to his.

His eyes were frantic.

She had never _seen_ such depths of fear in them.

"Jane, show me," he said quietly. "_Show_ me, Jane."

But she was still transfixed by his eyes. That _she_ could be the cause of what she saw there… it was hardly conceivable.

Then his hand closed over her arm, prying it gently but firmly away from her wound.

"Oh God," he choked. "Oh, Jane. Oh, _God_."

Then she was slipping sideways again, but she never hit the ground. All of a sudden, she didn't quite know how, Gunther was sitting with her cradled crosswise in his lap. She heard the ripping of fabric and then something soft and wadded was being pressed against her body, right where the pain was worst.

She hissed a breath in through her teeth; her vision darkened and her eyelids fluttered. Just as the darkness was starting to carry her away, though, Gunther gave her a single, hard shake.

"Jane, no! Do _not_ do that, you hear me!? I need you with me, you have to apply pressure here. Jane, damn you to hell, stay _with _me now!"

She blinked hard, trying to bring him back into focus, as above them Dragon demanded, "Gunther, what is going _ON_ down there!?!"

"I am trying to stabilize her," Gunther called up, his eyes never leaving Jane's face as he pressed her hand down, hard, over the makeshift dressings on her wound. "Then you have to get her out of here, back to the castle, and _fast_ – get ready to fly."

That was when Jane raised her other hand – the one not pressed to the gash in her body – and cupped Gunther's cheek with shaking fingers.

He would never know the effort it cost her – she had to fight for every inch of the paltry space that separated them. She only managed to keep her hand there for a second or two; then it fell back, leaving faint bloody streaks on his face. But she'd succeeded in her goal – she'd recaptured his full attention.

"Jane," he breathed, and his expression was tortured. "Do you even know what you have _done?_" And then, a heartbeat later, "That wound was meant for me." It was almost stated as a question… but not quite. And then he nodded, as if answering his own query. "It was supposed to be me."

Jane swallowed hard. She wasn't sure how much speech she had left in her, but she had to try. She had to try to make him see, to understand.

"I am not suh… sorry, Gunther," she whispered hoarsely. "_Not_ sorry. I did… did what… I had to. I could not… sta – hand to lose you. Not now. Not ever."

Gunther's capacity for anger always _had_ managed to surprise Jane at the oddest times, and this was no exception – for it was anger; no, not anger, but _fury_ – that contorted his face in that moment.

"And I suppose it never occurred to you," he shouted down at her, "to consider whether _I _could so easily stand to lose _you! _You stupid, _selfish_ – Jane, _NO!!_

This last was in response to the fact that she simply could _not _keep her eyes open any longer; they had begun to roll back in spite of her very best efforts. Her whole body was relaxing. Gunther had made it seem important – _very_ important – that she press down precisely where he had instructed her to… but she couldn't anymore.

She just couldn't.

"_JANE!_" He was shaking her again, even harder now. "Jane, _please_ no! I am sorry – I should not have said that – I am so, so sorry Jane, _PLEASE –!!_"

"Guh…" she breathed, "Gunth…" and then she was being _crushed_ against him, her face buried in his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, tighter than a vice.

"Dragon!" He was shouting. "She is not stabilizing! I cannot leave her like this! You will have to carry us both; can you do that?"

"What do you take me for, shortlife, a hatchling!?" came the snarled reply. "Of _course_ I can carry you both, just get her on my back!"

She was being lifted then, which sent a bright new flash of pain through her and jerked a weak cry of protest from her lips. Gunther's arms clenched around her even tighter, and he let loose with an expletive she'd _never_ heard before – one so spectacularly colorful that if she had even a little bit more energy she might have smiled despite everything.

There was nothing humorous, however, about his next words.

Her lips pressed so close to her ear that she could feel them moving, feel his breath, he hissed, "this is costing me my shot at revenge, Jane, and if you go and die on me now, I swear to God, I will _never_ forgive you. You hear me? I will hate you to my dying day."

Then there was the familiar, weightless upsurge of lift off, the earth spiraling away below her… and then, despite the fact that she wanted so badly – so _badly_ – to hold on for Gunther; despite the fact that his last words to her had broken her heart into a thousand tiny pieces… there was absolutely nothing.

Nothing at all.


	14. Chapter 14

**Interlude: Gunther**

OOOOO

_Keep breathing. _

_(– I hate you –)_

_Keep breathing. _

_(– I HATE you –)_

_Live. _

_(– How could you –)_

_Live._

_(– do this –)_

_Live._

_(– to me!?! –) _

_Damn you, Jane, LIVE –!!_

"Aaugh!"

The sound, a mix of frustration and despair, was ripped from him as he stopped pacing long enough to drive a fist into the wall near the foot of Jane's bed, bruising his knuckles and earning a quietly reproachful look from Pepper into the bargain.

_Three days_.

He braced his forearm against the wall and dropped his head onto it with an exhausted, miserable groan. He couldn't take much more of this. It was… God… it was _breaking _him. He couldn't think of any other word for it. It was breaking him. How much more could he be expected to endure? It had already been _three days_…

Three days since Jane had fallen against him on the battlefield, crashing into him from behind and plunging him into the most horrific waking nightmare of his life. Three days since he'd gathered her battered, bleeding body into his arms and hurled himself onto Dragon's back, crushing her to him as hard as he could, as if he could somehow hold the life in her by force – and feeling all of the resistance – all of the _vitality_ – pouring out of her anyway.

Three days since Dragon, in his frantic haste, had landed so hard that Gunther'd been thrown right off, holding onto Jane and twisting himself so as to land beneath her on the hard-packed earth of the castle's courtyard, shielding her from the impact as best he could and – he was almost sure – cracking one of his own ribs in the process. Struggling to right himself and get back the breath that had been so brutally knocked out of him, he'd realized, his heart missing a beat, that her eyes were open again – open and fever-bright – locked steadily on his own.

The impact must have jolted her back to consciousness.

"Jane!" he'd gasped.

Suddenly the pain in his chest, screamingly vivid as it was, had seemed a whole lot less important. Moving carefully, slipping a hand behind her head to cushion it from the ground, he had reversed their positions; so that she was the one who was prone on her back, with him leaning close over her. Then Dragon had been there too, his gigantic head filling the whole of Gunther's vision, blocking the rest of the courtyard from view.

"Jane! Jane, are you all right!? I am so sorry about the landing, I just –"

"It is fine," Jane had whispered, her voice cracked and barely audible. "I love… love you… Greenlips."

Her eyes had shifted to Gunther then, but he'd seen immediately that the awareness – the _lucidity_ – had already been fading from them. He had taken the hand that wasn't cushioning her head; pressed it against the side of her face, cupping her cheek and burying his fingers in her tangled, sweat-damp hair.

She had swallowed hard, then murmured, "I… am… cold… Gunther," taking great care, it seemed, to enunciate each word.

"Jane," he'd croaked again, and without really giving any thought at all to what he was doing, had lowered his head just the few more inches necessary and pressed a gentle kiss right in the center of her forehead. Pulling back a second later, he'd found that she was actually smiling up at him; a sweet, sleepy smile.

"Gunther –" she'd breathed, and then her breath had caught – hitched – and she'd been slipping away from him again, the light in her eyes distant now and dim… fading away and then gone.

"Jane!" His voice had been sheer desperation. "Jane, no! No, no, no, no, nono_no_…" and then he'd been crying, dropping his face to her chest and crying like a child, for all that each sob to rip its way out of him caused such a spike in the bright, hot new pain in his ribcage that the world seemed to darken and almost pitch away.

And then, in a matter of a second, he'd found himself flipped flat onto his back with one of Dragon's enormous clawed feet pressing him into the ground and the green-scaled face, lips pulled back into a furious snarl, mere inches from his own.

"You listen to me, shortlife, and listen well," Dragon had growled; "you do not have the luxury of tears right now. You are the reason Jane is like this, and you need to _do_ something about it. _Fix this, NOW!_"

A heartbeat later Dragon had thrown back his head and was bellowing for help in a voice that shook the castle, while Gunther had gathered Jane to him again and fought his way back to his feet, and then Pepper was running toward them, her face ashen, and then –

Then the three most horrendous days and nights of Gunther's life had ensued.

OOOOO

Three days without sleep in any real sense. Three days without _food _in any real sense. He would not leave her side for either. Every morning Pepper would hand him a bowl of porridge, and every evening a bowl of broth, which he would automatically bolt down, without actually tasting anything. Three days of watching as the woman he loved fought through violent wracking chills and pendulumed between brutal bouts of delirium and periods of such prolonged and _profound_ stillness that over and over and _over_ again he had feared her already dead.

It was impossible to say what was worse; the fits of delirium themselves, during which she cried out things that ripped his heart into jagged little pieces – "No! Stop! _Please _stop! Gunther! Gunther, oh _God_, make him _STOP!_" (little could Gunther know that far from reliving a vicious rape as he imagined, she was simply repeating the same nightmare in which, over and over now, she was subjected to the sight of his own demise) – or the aftermath of these outbursts when, utterly exhausted, her battered, fever-ravaged body would slump against the pillows as pale and lifeless as a corpse… scaring him to the foundation of his soul _every – single – time_.

Then there had been the time – two days ago now, he thought – that Pepper had insisted upon calling in the town healer to help with Jane's care. Gunther had had misgivings from the beginning (he knew something of the man from when he had lived in town himself, and his impressions had not been favorable) but they had grown exponentially when the healer walked – or to be more accurate, _shuffled_ – into the room. He'd looked older than God, for one thing… and for another, he had pronounced – the moment he had stepped through the door, without even properly _looking_ at Jane he had pronounced – that the fever would need to be bled.

Gunther, who had been on the far side of the room, had actually vaulted _over_ Jane's bed, placing himself squarely between the old man and his would-be patient, and his hand had hovered threateningly over the pommel of his sword as he'd snarled that she had lost too much blood already, and if the healer took so much as one step closer, Gunther would bleed _him_.

Aghast, the man had left forthwith, but not without a parting shot; "you had best say your goodbyes then, boy," he had told Gunther reprovingly, "because you are killing the girl."

Those words had gnawed at Gunther ever since. He didn't hold with the idea of bleeding a fever – but was there a chance, any chance at _all_, that his rash protectiveness might have cost Jane a shot at an effective, legitimate cure? He didn't think so… and when Sir Theodore had arrived later that same day, limping, from the battlefield, he had confirmed that Gunther had probably saved Jane's life… shaking his head in disgust and calling the old healer a charlatan. He had even managed to smooth a few of Pepper's ruffled feathers, but he hadn't had much time to spend in Jane's room. His duty kept him by the side of the king, who had also been wounded – not as badly as Jane, but badly enough – in the act of slaying Edgar himself.

He had stayed long enough, however, to report to Gunther that the invaders had been utterly routed and were in full, chaotic retreat – thanks in large part to Dragon, who had returned to the battlefield shortly after Jane had been carried indoors, in a rage the likes of which no living human being had ever witnessed before.

He had also very gently broken it to Gunther that Sir Ivon would not be returning from the battlefield – Gunther's mentor had fallen that day.

So now there was this bright, fresh, new grief to deal with as well.

And despite Sir Theodore's assurances, his self-recriminations continued to eat at him.

He hadn't protected her well enough at the banquet. He hadn't forced her to tell him what was going on the next morning, even though it had been _patently _obvious that something had been terribly wrong. He hadn't prevented her leaving the castle for Edgar's camp. He hadn't discovered where she'd gone in time – hadn't reached her until she'd already been beaten, raped and flogged. Hadn't prevented her from leaving the castle – _AGAIN_ – to follow him onto the battlefield. Hadn't even known she'd been standing _right behind him_ until she'd fallen into him, for God's sake! And then, on top of _everything_ else, he had chased a healer away.

_This is my fault, this is my fault, this is my fault, this is my fault…_

It was like a mantra, running circles in his brain.

And God help him, he couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't.

The first sob caught him by surprise. He hadn't cried since that moment in the courtyard. He hadn't expected to cry now. He was trying, damn it, trying _so hard_ to stay strong for Jane. But he was so tired, and so hurt, and so scared. Once that floodgate opened, he couldn't close it again. He doubled over – it didn't hurt his ribs as badly as it had three days ago in the courtyard, but it still hurt plenty – and then he was sliding down the wall, crossing his elbows on his knees, dropping his head forward onto his arms, and sobbing, and sobbing, and sobbing. It took a long, long time for him even to realize that there was actually a _word _interspersed with the great, gasping, shuddering sobs that were wracking his exhausted body from top to bottom.

The word was "Jane."


	15. Chapter 15

**Interlude: Gunther (Continued)**

OOOOO

He had sunk into a kind of stupor there on the floor by Jane's bed, when the chamber door flew open and, to his immense surprise, Gunther found himself face-to-face with Jane's formidable mother, the Lady in Waiting herself.

Pepper, who had been sponging Jane's forehead, dropped into a deep curtsy, damp cloth still in hand; and Jane's father, who had been sitting beside her bed and reading quietly to her – something he'd taken to doing during her periods of relative calm, ever since he had returned from the battlefield himself, shortly after Sir Theodore – stopped off in mid-sentence, leapt to his feet, and embraced his wife without a word.

Feeling nearly drugged with exhaustion, Gunther forced himself to his feet, using the wall for support. "My Lady," he croaked, when she stepped back from her husband's embrace and her eyes met his.

"Sir Gunther," she said, inclining her head for a moment. "I have been told that it was you who carried my child to safety – _twice_. I am truly in your debt."

"No," he began, shaking his head, "you do not –"

But she held up a hand to silence him, and did it with such unquestionable authority that he obeyed. "I have been gone long, and there is much to be said, I am sure. Now, however, is not the time. I need to assess my daughter's condition, and tend to her. The rest of you must leave. Pepper, I arrived with the queen and she requests your attendance upon her immediately. She is in King Cuthbert's chamber and requires your assistance with his care." Pepper curtsied again and immediately made for the door, handing the dampened cloth off to Jane's mother as she went. Then Adeline turned her attention back to the two men still in the room.

"Husband," she said softly, pressing a palm against the Chamberlain's cheek in a gesture that was so simple and yet so intimate that Gunther looked momentarily away, "you cannot know how I have missed you. We have much to discuss. But for now you must go and get some rest. You look… overwrought."

"And _you_," she said then, finally turning her attention back to Gunther once her husband had pressed a brief, chaste kiss to her cheek and followed Pepper from the room, "forgive me, Sir Gunther, but _you _look half-dead on your feet. I must insist that you go and get some sleep as well."

She turned her back on him then, her dismissal complete, and crossed to the bed, sinking down on the edge of it and leaning close over her daughter's still form, smoothing back Jane's unruly copper hair with slim, pale fingers. Gunther thought he heard her whisper something like, "oh, my sweet daughter; my poor, poor child," as she pressed the back of her hand first to Jane's forehead, then to each of her cheeks in turn; an age-old technique used by mothers everywhere to gauge the severity of a child's fever.

As far as the woman was concerned, he was already gone. No one, after all, as far as Gunther could recollect, had _ever_ gainsaid a dismissal by the Lady in Waiting.

She truly was surprised, therefore, when he cleared his throat, indicating his continued presence in the room.

Twisting around where she sat so as to look at him, she arched an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"With all due respect, My Lady," Gunther said, "I have not left Jane yet, and I do not intend to leave her now."

Jane's mother sighed. "Your sentiment is truly admirable, Sir Gunther, but you are clearly in grave need of rest and I assure you that Jane is in very capable hands with me."

"I would not argue that, and I am grateful you are here. But –" he swallowed hard; raked a hand through his hair. "This is my fault, you see, and so… I cannot leave her. I _will_ not leave her. I have to stay."

Adeline frowned. "I was not given to believe that Jane's condition was in any way your doing, Sir Gunther – to the contrary, I have been told that your acts regarding my daughter have been nothing short of heroic. And while I deeply appreciate your continued devotion to Jane, I think you misunderstand me. I am not asking you to leave. I am _telling_ you to leave. I will need to assess the nature and extent of my daughter's injuries, you see. This will require my conducting a… full inspection of her person. It would not be appropriate for you to be present during such a procedure. Do you take my meaning _now_, young man?"

"I… oh." In spite of everything, he thought he felt a flush mounting in his cheeks as he did indeed grasp her meaning. "Yes, I believe I do. I shall turn my back for as long as necessary. But I still see no need to leave this room. I have seen, dressed, and tended to Jane's wounds myself, on the battlefield. I already know what she has endured."

Now Jane's mother stood again, facing him across the bed; and the mounting anger in both her expression and her voice told Gunther that he was fighting a losing battle.

"Now, see here – I do not question what may be necessary during the heat of battle when there are no other alternatives available. But I _will not have you in here_ during such a delicate procedure; not now that it is entirely possible for propriety to be observed! I will call you back in due time, Sir Gunther, but right now I must _demand_ that you _leave! IMMEDIATELY!_"

He was defeated. There was nothing more to be said. For the first time in three days, Gunther crossed the room to the door. Even as his hand closed on the handle, though, he could not help throwing one last, tortured look back toward Jane.

Adeline saw this, and her stern expression softened. "I _will_ call you back, you know. You have my word. But for now… you must _sleep_, my boy. You _must_. For your own sake, _and_ Jane's when you do return. You will be of very limited use to her if you are nearly as delirious as _she_ is. Sleep, Sir Gunther. Please."

Then she was turning away – and he was turning the door handle – and barely a heartbeat later, the door had closed behind him and he was cut off… cut off from the woman he loved more than his life, more than his _soul_, and who was in very real and immediate danger of drawing her last breath at any given moment now.

_She said she would call me back. She gave me her word_.

Yes, but what if the summons didn't reach him in time? What if the next time he laid eyes on Jane, _his_ Jane, she didn't merely look like a corpse, but actually _was _one?

"Oh God," he groaned out loud, half falling against the corridor wall and scrubbing his hands against his eyes, rubbing at them like a child. "Oh Jane, Jane _please_…"

Steadying himself on his feet, he began to walk.

Jane's mother had said to sleep. His body was _screaming_ for sleep. But he didn't make for his own chambers. The truth was that he wasn't actually aware, in any meaningful sense, of _where_ his feet were taking him. Cut off from Jane, it hardly seemed to matter where he went. He was simply… adrift.

He wound up in the chapel.

OOOOO

Perhaps it was no accident that he was drawn to the ancient building; one of the oldest on the castle grounds. It was dim and cool, quiet, deserted and peaceful. He was still determined to deny himself the sleep his body was yearning for, but at least time spent in this silent, venerable place would be a somewhat passable substitute.

His feet were dragging, the world beginning to darken around the edges as he made his way up the center aisle. At the foot of the altar's stone steps he dropped to his knees. He'd had no clear intention in mind when he'd come in here, but now, quite suddenly, it seemed perfectly obvious what he had to do. He would repeat the vigil of his knighting ritual. He would stay here, kneeling before the ancient altar, until Jane either recovered or… he shook his head. There was no 'or'. She _had _to recover.

She had to.

He'd never been given much to formal prayer; he'd been raised by a father who'd had no time for Christian rituals and no use for Christian morals. A complete cynic, Magnus had preferred to make regular, handsome donations to his neighborhood parish, in effect _buying _his – and Gunther's – way out of needing to attend services.

So Gunther was a little at a loss right now. He found his mind wandering, and then he was recalling the image of Jane kneeling here, _right_ here in this selfsame place, on the night of her own vigil a month or so after his.

He'd watched her for hours that night from the rear of the building, as one candle after another on the altar had guttered and died. Remembering how difficult, how taxing _his_ vigil had been, he'd kept himself ready to spring into action at a moment's notice – to sprint up the aisle and catch her if she should have appeared in danger of fainting or anything of the like. She'd never needed him, though; never so much as swayed, as far as he could see – and he knew for a fact there'd been a couple of times he'd swayed and almost fallen himself during his own ordeal.

Her strength and steadiness had impressed him… even if he might have wished, just a _tiny _bit, in his heart of hearts, that she would have needed him even a little – would have given him the opportunity to catch her when she fell, to prove himself to her, to play hero just for a moment, just a bit.

He had to bite back a bitter laugh, now, at the thought. He'd _wanted_ to play hero that night, and hadn't been given the opportunity. Now he'd been _given_ the opportunity to be Jane's hero, and he'd failed her utterly.

The irony was brutal.

Beaten, raped, flogged, _stabbed_, her wounds infected, on the brink of death – and her mother was _thanking_ him! Yeah, some hero he was. Some hero indeed.

It took a while, kneeling there, for him to realize that he was actually still crying; but the flow of his tears was silent now, and slow. Everything about him was exhausted and _beyond _exhausted; even, apparently, his tears.

He bowed his head and tried to pray. He would never be able to say with any certainty when it was exactly that he passed out, collapsing full-length at the foot of the altar with his head coming to rest cushioned – if you wanted to call it that – on the bottommost of the cold, stone steps.

OOOOO

Some indeterminate amount of time later, he was covered.

He was vaguely, peripherally aware of the approach of soft, decidedly feminine footsteps. "Jane?" he croaked, trying to fight his way back to something resembling at least partial consciousness- he attempted to raise his head from the step, but with no success whatsoever.

"Shhh," someone whispered, and after that there were only impressions.

The rustle of a gown; a pale, sad face; a whisper of long, dark hair; a faint scent of flowers. Small, careful hands; his head being lifted, a cushion slipped beneath it, a jug of cool water held to his lips before he was eased back down. And then something beautifully soft and warm billowing down, settling gently around him.

He watched her from slitted eyes as she set the jug of water down within arm's reach, and a burning taper a little further away. Why the taper? Was it dark already? He supposed it was. When she turned back toward him, he recognized her at last.

Of course. If the Queen and the Lady in Waiting had returned, it was only natural that she should be here too. "Princess…?" he managed hoarsely. And then, "what time is it?"

"Shh," she whispered again, returning to his side and folding herself gracefully to her knees. "It is time to rest, Sir Gunther. You need more sleep. I will sit with you a while. It does not seem right to leave you here, in the dark, alone."

He made one more, mighty effort at wakefulness – it was futile. A moment later he was drifting back into the dark embrace of a sound and dreamless sleep. Even so, on some deep, fundamental level, he remained aware of – and grateful for – the fact that he was no longer alone.

The next time he opened his eyes it was still dark, the taper still burning, and she was still there.

The time after, weak light was filtering through the chapel's high windows, the taper'd burnt out, and she was gone. He managed, that time, to reach the jug of water and gulp the rest down before succumbing to sleep once more.

And the third and final time it was dark again, she was there again, and all hell was breaking loose.

OOOOO

Coming fully awake was a slow and entirely unpleasant process for Gunther; even though nearly a full twenty-four hours had passed since he'd staggered into the chapel, his body was not ready to relinquish the sleep it had craved for so long. So he fought the waking process every step of the way, but to no avail.

It was relentless. Someone was shaking, shaking, _shaking_ him, mercilessly.

"What?" he demanded groggily, trying clumsily, instinctively, to fend the shaker off. "Whatizit, _what!?_" Then he became aware of the voice.

"Gunther! Sir _Gunther!_ You must wake up! Please! Please, you _must!_"

"Princess!?" Yes, it was Lavinia again, no doubt of it; and she was beside herself.

And then everything clicked in his mind.

"_Jane!_" Suddenly he was sitting bolt upright on the chapel floor; the oversized cloak with which, hours ago, she had covered him, pooling about his waist. "Princess – it is Jane?" This last was phrased as a question, but in truth he already knew the answer. It _had_ to be about Jane. And from the expression on Lavinia's face, it couldn't be good.

Her eyes were huge in the gloom as she nodded. "Yes, she – oh Gunther, her fever, it –" he was already climbing to his feet as she continued, "her mother sent me to fetch you. We have to hurry. She says it is burning too fiercely; it cannot sustain itself like this any longer. Something must happen, and soon. She said – the fever, she said that it either –" Lavinia swallowed hard, clearly fighting for composure. "It has to break, or else Jane has to… has to… die."

At this, he was already running.

OOOOO

Skidding through the doorway of Jane's chamber, he found the room to be in a flurry of activity. An enormous basin, nearly the size of the bed itself and a good two and a half feet deep, had been set in the middle of the floor, and Pepper and the Chamberlain were in the act of filling it with water. Lavinia, who had darted in behind him, raced over to them, grabbed up two empty jugs from the floor, and ran out the door again, presumably to go fill them.

On the bed itself lay Jane – well, "lay" was not really an accurate term. Her delirium appeared to have returned full-force. Most of the bedclothes had been kicked entirely off onto the floor, and those that remained were a rumpled heap across the foot of the bed. The only thing Jane was wearing was a simple, thin white linen shift, which was soaked to the point of near transparency, and pasted to her slim form with sweat; he could clearly see where she was bandaged beneath it… and also where she was not. Apparently, fresh heights of panic had pushed Adeline beyond her former concern for Jane's modesty.

At the moment, Adeline was kneeling practically on _top_ of her daughter, in an apparent bid to keep her still.

And _Jane_ was… Jane was… a sick, icy fear lanced through Gunther's chest.

Jane was practically convulsing.

Barely aware of moving, he somehow found himself beside the bed, demanding to know what was going on. Adeline glanced up at him, her pale face drawn and haggard, ravaged by grief.

"She burns too hot, Sir Gunther. We need to submerge her in the cool water; that may help to bring down her temperature and break the fever. It is our last hope. But thrashing about the way she is, I fear she will drown herself!" A pair of twin tears spilled over, and flashed down the Lady in Waiting's face. "My beautiful Jane. My only child – I fear all is lost."

Gunther didn't think, didn't hesitate, didn't skip a beat.

He simply scooped Jane up (she was impossibly, scorchingly hot in his arms), strode over to the mostly-filled tub, and stepped in, sinking down into the water, fully clothed, with Jane held hard against his chest.

She gasped and stiffened against him as the cold water closed over both of them, trying to fight free of his grasp. "No!" she shouted, her voice hoarse; barely recognizable. "Get away from me! Get away, let me _go!_ I have to reach Gunther – Gunther! _He is killing Gunther!_"

"Jane." He tightened his arms further. "Jane, stop – I am right here. I am _here_, Jane." He didn't seem to be getting through to her at all. He held her body in his arms, but _she _was someplace else entirely. And wherever she was, whatever she was seeing, she was absolutely _frantic_.

"Nuh… no… God, no… _Gunther, NO!_"

Lavinia bent close to his ear. "She has been going on like this for an hour, at least," the Princess whispered. Gunther barely heard her as he wrapped his legs, now, around Jane's struggling form too. She was expending too much energy trying to fight free of him; he needed to immobilize her; but the harder he held her, the harder she fought.

_Damn_ her ridiculous stubbornness! She _never_ knew when to quit! She _needed_ this energy to fight through her fever, and yet in the midst of her delirium, she was throwing it away, trying to fend off those who were only there to help her. It made him want to howl with frustration, want to _shake_ the sense back into her.

_Forever. If you leave me I will hate you forever. And you _are_ leaving me… you have already begun. Oh God, Jane… _please_ do not. It will _kill_ me. Please do NOT…_

The room was still full of people and noise, but all of that had ceased to matter to Gunther. It was as if he and Jane, submerged together as they were, had somehow found themselves thrown into the eye of a storm. Activity swirled all around them, but there in the center they were… isolated, somehow.

The voices, the faces, of the others in the room faded from Gunther's consciousness until he no longer really registered them at all. At that moment, there was only one person in all the world that mattered to him.

_Jane. Do not leave me, Jane. Do not let this sickness carry you away. Please do not go_.

Her strength was ebbing; she was struggling herself into complete exhaustion. He had a sinking feeling that one of those periods of frightening inertia was approaching… and that it could well be the last. This time she might not recover.

But there was little he could do except hold onto her through _whatever_ came… and pray. And pray. And pray.

"Jane," he murmured, his voice croaky and hoarse with emotion, "stay with me, Jane."

She was relaxing against him at last, her breaths coming shallow now, quick and erratic. Even reclining in the basin with cold water up to his chest, he was aware of the level of _heat_ she was putting off; a level of heat that was just wholly and fundamentally _wrong_.

She was positively _radiating_ it.

"_Jane_."

Her brow furrowed slightly at the sound of his voice, and she shook her head where it lay against his chest. It was a slow, tired, somehow _defeated_ gesture. "No," she whispered, barely audible – even holding her clasped against him, he had a hard time hearing her now. "Gunther, no. He just keeps dying. I cannot reach him. I will _never_ reach him." Her voice broke, the despair in it tearing at his heart. "Oh Gunther, please please _no_… not again… oh _please_ not _again_…"

"Shh." He scooped up a handful of water and let it pour out gently over her face, the only part of her that had not been fully drenched as of yet. Then he ran his fingers lightly over her cheeks, her forehead, wetting her down and smoothing back her tangled hair. "God, you are burning up." He readjusted her in his arms, pulling her higher against him, so that her head lay nestled right against the base of his throat. She'd gone almost completely limp now, in his arms. When next he spoke, his lips were very nearly moving against the superheated skin of her temple.

"Jane, I know you can hear me. I _know_ you can. You were listening a moment ago; I saw it in your face. You have to hold onto my voice now. Hold onto me, Jane. I am holding onto _you_ – I will _never _let you go – but I cannot do this on my own. I know you are tired, but do _not_ drift away. You need to fight this, Jane. Fight the fever… stay with me. Please, Jane, stay with me. Please."

He thought he heard her whimper very low in her throat, a sound like a wounded animal; that was all. And that was when he finally just came out and said it; the thing he had _never_ been able to bring himself to say to her before.

"Jane, I love you." His voice was quiet, but tinged now with true desperation. The fear of rejection no longer mattered to him. The other people in the room no longer mattered to him. Let them think what they would; they were little more than ghosts to him at this point anyway; barely real.

Only Jane was real. Only Jane had substance and solidity, lying there so helpless and hurt in his arms.

'I have loved you forever," he choked out, "for _years_, Jane, but I was too much of a coward to admit it. So worried about my stupid ego, in case you should reject me. I do not _care_ anymore if you reject me. I do not care if you wake up, climb onto Dragon and fly away and I never see you _again_. I could live peacefully to a hundred, just knowing you were out there somewhere, alive and happy. Only do not leave me like _this_, Jane – not like this. God, you are ripping my heart right out of me. Jane… Jane…"

He was losing the ability even to speak coherently, his anguish and fear were so strong. Dragging in a hitching, unsteady breath, he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her; despite the sweat and the sickness, she still smelled like… Jane.

"I love you so much, so so much, you stupid, stubborn, infuriating girl," he half-groaned, half-sobbed into her damp, bedraggled hair. "You cannot do this, Jane. It is too unfair. You have to stay. I love you. Stay with me. I love you… God, Jane…

…Stay."


	16. Chapter 16

_I will not look. I cannot see if I do not look. I will just lie here. I will not look._

_Jane lay curled into the tightest little ball she could manage, there in the ravaged battlefield that existed in her tormented mind. Knees to her chest, face to her knees, arms crossed over her head, eyes tightly shut, she hid. She had learned the routine well enough by now to know what to expect; if she opened her eyes she would be subjected to watching Gunther – _her_ Gunther – die again. And again._

_And again._

_So she stayed tightly curled in her defensive little ball and when she imagined that she heard his voice calling to her on the wind, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to ignore it._

_What she _couldn't_ ignore was the fact that it was getting colder, and the wind was picking up._

_In fact… it was getting a _lot_ colder, and the wind was picking up FAST._

_It was whipping her hair across her face, rushing in her ears, and… beginning to almost… _tug _at her?_

_Yes, she thought, that was right. Odd, but right. It felt as if the wind was… it was difficult to explain, but as if the wind had a conscious, articulated desire to carry her away – and was simply building up the necessary forcefulness to do so._

_And it didn't feel as if it had far to go to get there._

_Which raised the next logical question; did she _want _to be carried away?_

_Well, anything was better than this, right? She had no idea where this strange, somehow intelligent wind wanted to take her, but it couldn't possibly be worse than this. Being trapped in this wasteland of her mind where everyone and everything she cared about was dead. _Anything_ had to be better._

Jane!

_She scrunched her eyes even more tightly closed. So it wasn't her imagination, as she'd been hoping. He WAS_ _calling her. This was something new. Gunther had never called out to her before. He had simply died silently, over and over and _over_ again. It was hard enough to watch. She didn't think she could stand to _hear_ his death too. It was just too cruel, too hideously cruel. She'd rather die herself._

_And then she understood. And understanding, raised her head and opened her eyes at last._

_She did not look backwards, in the direction of Gunther's voice. She was very careful to look only in the direction that the wind was moving her – and it _was _moving her, now. Only a little, inch by inch, but she had the impression, somehow, that it had only just begun to gather momentum._

_Her hair was being whipped madly about her head; snapping in front of her eyes and obstructing her view almost completely – almost, but not quite. _

_She could see enough._

_The landscape of her mind, which had up until now seemed to her to be a real, solid battlefield laid waste, had suddenly become wavery; indistinct. It was shimmering and fading. And right dead center in the middle of it…_

_In the middle of it…_

_She gulped in a shuddery breath. It was like nothing she had ever seen. And yet she knew exactly, instinctively, what it was._

_The wind was swirling in front of her into a vortex; a tunnel. It was very long and very dark, and not a little frightening. And yet she thought – no wait, she didn't just think, she was _sure_; absolutely, wonderfully, _beautifully_ sure – that there was just the smallest glimmer of light at the far end of it. No bigger than a spark, and yet the most stunning, most powerful thing that she had ever seen._

_Better than this? Oh yes, whatever was in that light was a thousand times better than this… and the wind would take her there. It had already begun. All she had to do was _let_ it. Just give herself over to it with the full acceptance that once she made that choice, there would be no turning back. _

Jane! JANE!

"_No," she whispered. It came out somewhere between a sob and a groan. Why was he doing this to her? Why, _why_!? This shouldn't be a difficult decision. Torture versus peace… and there _would_ be peace in that light; she was certain of it. It should be a foregone conclusion. And yet Gunther… Gunther…_

_Why did he have to complicate everything!? He always had – all her LIFE he had. Nothing was _ever_ easy with Gunther around._

"_Go away," she whispered raggedly. "I cannot – I _will_ not – watch you die anymore. Just leave me _alone_, Gunther. Let me go."_

Jane! Jane, _Please!_ Damn it! I _LOVE_ you!

_She froze. Very, very slowly, she raised a shaking hand; pressed it to her temple, pinning at least some of her hair back, out of her eyes. _

_Had he just said what she thought he'd said? He couldn't have… _could _he?_

_And even if he had… was it worth turning around for, knowing what she would see?_

"_I cannot. I cannot watch that anymore, I can NOT!"_

_The wind was increasing every second now; catching at her clothes, her limbs. She was moving faster now, being pulled along as though she were caught in a river's strengthening current. She was no longer sure she could stop this process even if she wanted to. So why put herself through the agony of turning around? It would not – _could_ not – make a difference at this point anyway._

Jane! I _know_ you can hear me! I KNOW you can! Jane, you can fight this! Since when do you surrender so easily!? Damn you, woman, _FIGHT!_

"_Gunther…" His name was torn out of her; half a curse and half a prayer. How could he do this to her? _Ask _this of her? Hadn't she endured enough? Didn't she deserve to rest?_

_She dug her fingers into the ground; it made no difference, she was being pulled along at a right good clip now. Her nails left little gouges; narrow tracks in the dirt. Ahead of her the vortex yawned and that tiny glimmer of light, no bigger than a grain of sand, beckoned._

_Behind her, Gunther shouted again in a cracked, panicked voice._

Jane! Are you really just going to _give up!?_ JANE!

"_Gunther, it has already begun!" she cried, still refusing to actually look in his direction. "I could not stop this now, even if I wanted to! It is stronger than I am, and it is already in motion!"_

_She clenched her hands in the powdery dirt, digging her fingers in deeper. The wind just pulled her harder. The next time Gunther spoke, she found she could barely hear him. It was as if some unfathomably vast distance had suddenly opened between them; as if in the few seconds since he'd last shouted out to her, the wind had moved her not inches, not yards, but _miles_._

Then I guess I have to let you go, _his voice drifted to her. It was barely audible now, over the rising howl of the wind, but the _sadness_ in it… _that_ much came through loud and clear. That much was unmistakable. _You cannot be the Jane _I _knew and loved, at any rate. _She_ would never say such a thing; she would fight to the bitter end. She was not a weakling or a coward, and you, it seems, are both. So go then; go on. _My_ Jane… My Jane must already be dead.

_And then – of _course_ – she got angry._

"_God damn you, Gunther Breech!" she shouted furiously, but there was no answer this time; no further sound at all. Finally, slowly, again holding one hand to her head to keep at least some of her hair in check, she turned and looked behind her._

_There was nothing there._

_No hideous death scene playing out before her eyes; nothing at all anymore but swirling darkness._

"_Gunther! GUNTHER!?"_

…you, Jane...

_There. He had said it again. His voice was no more than a whisper on the wind now, but he was still there, somewhere, and he had said it _again.

"_Oh, God," she choked out, "what do I DO?" Ahead of her was warmth and peace and light and respite, and the easy way out._

_Behind her was cold, and hurt, and the fight of her life._

_And Gunther._

_Gunther-Biscuit-Weevil-Breech, her life's single biggest _inconvenience_ since… well, since forever, it felt like. Arrogant. Infuriating. Hurling insults and declaring his love for her, alternately._

_Oh, hell and maggots._

_There was nothing for it._

_She had to go back._

_Back to her family; her friends; back to Dragon… back to Gunther._

_And it was not going to be fun._

_Clenching her jaw, bunching her muscles, she steeled herself… and then twisted her body so that she was facing directly back into the wind. On her hands and knees now, the wind gusting directly in her face, she tried to scrabble to her feet; failed; tried again._

_Failed again._

_She was still losing ground. Still being tugged the other way._

"_No," she whispered through gritted teeth into the maelstrom that was whipping powerfully, insistently around her. "I am… not… ready. This is not… my… time."_

_She dug her hands _and_ her feet into the soft, yielding earth. And then inch by inch and foot by foot, she began to fight, to crawl, to scrabble, to _claw_ her way back. _


	17. Chapter 17

Cold. That was the first thing that she registered; she was horribly, _bitingly_ cold.

A quick second was that she seemed to be… seemed to be… lying atop a… _person?_ Draped bonelessly, face-down, over… _someone_… with her head resting high on his chest, face nestled right under his collarbone. It was Gunther, of course; she recognized him immediately, despite being barely half-conscious. She'd know him anywhere by scent alone; and years of close physical contact while sparring had given her more than a passing familiarity with the hard contours of his body, as well.

And third, it seemed that they – _both_ of them – were, for the most part at least – _underwater!?_

She opened her eyes and struggled to bring them into focus, with only limited success… she could make out a shoulder, the metal rim of the basin they were in; a suggestion of dark, damp hair. She had the impression that his chin was resting on the top of her head.

She flexed her fingers; found that her hands were draped over his shoulders; almost, but not quite, linked round his neck. They obeyed her, though they were stiff and ached with cold. All right, then. So far, so good. She tried to lift her head a bit, next.

At this, she failed spectacularly. She managed to raise her face maybe a quarter inch off Gunther's chest, if that – then had to let it fall, clunking gently back against him.

At this, Gunther's arm, which was loosely encircling her waist, tensed for a second, giving her a brief squeeze… but nothing more.

Inwardly, she frowned. She'd been expecting… well, she wasn't _sure_ what, exactly, but a bigger reaction than _this_.

Something was wrong here.

She tried to speak his name; managed only to produce an unlovely sort of a whispery croak. She swallowed hard. Collected herself. Tried again.

"Gunther?"

Again that lethargic half-squeeze, this time accompanied by a hoarse, rather cryptic statement; "stay with me, Jane."

Now she was really starting to worry. _Stay with me, Jane?_ What did that mean?

"_Gunther!_"

"Don't leave me. Fight."

His voice sounded croakier than hers. And he wasn't making any sense at all. Stay with him – don't leave him – but she was _right here_. And she was in icy water from her chest down, soaking wet and freezing cold and hurting in a _variety_ of places, and _confused_, damn it all, and she really didn't need him to be scaring her like this.

"Gunther… _please_."

"I love you, Jane…"

That statement sent a shock right through her, just as it had when she'd heard it carried to her on the wind in her… dream?

_No. That was no dream. That was something _far _more powerful._

Already the vibrancy and immediacy of that experience was fading from her consciousness, but there was not a single shred of doubt in her mind that it had been no ordinary dream… not even a fever dream. It had been something… else.

And it had been those words from Gunther; those astonishing, precious, and wholly beautiful words, that had brought her out of it, _whatever_ it had been.

They had given her strength then, and they gave her strength now. She tried to lift her head again, and this time she succeeded.

What she saw made her breath catch. Gunther looked… simply _awful_.

His face was beyond pale, beyond ashen; it was a horrible, chalky shade of grey. The circles beneath his eyes were so dark and prominent that they looked for all the world like bruises. His jaw was clenched – probably to keep his teeth from chattering, she realized, just as her own _started_ – and his lips… they were actually, honestly, _blue_. She had never seen anything quite like it.

"Gunther," she breathed. This time there was no response at all.

A lightning-quick glance around showed her that she was in her own room, with the puzzling addition of the basin of water in which she and Gunther were…

Were _what?_ Exactly?

_Freezing. We are both _freezing_. We have to get out of here_.

The same glance ascertained that it was night, and that two other people were in the room, both appearing to be soundly asleep. Jester was snoozing half-propped in the corner near the hearth; giddy relief crashed over Jane at the sight of her friend, for all that his left leg was heavily bandaged and his right arm in a sling. His head was cushioned on a pillow evidently purloined from the bed … and then, on the bed _itself_, lay a figure that looked suspiciously, _wonderfully_, like her –

"Mother?"

It _was_ her mother, she was almost sure of it; but her voice was too weak to rouse Adeline from her exhausted slumber.

She had to rouse Gunther instead. She _had_ to.

"Gunther," she rasped again, returning her attention to the person who was in closest – by far – proximity to her. Her teeth were starting to rattle hard now. "Guh-hunther… come on… puh-please."

"Jane… fight it… stay… stay with…"

What was the _matter _with him!? It was as if he was going on rote. She had no way of knowing, of course, that she had spoken, cried and _screamed_ his name literally dozens of times while in the throes of her delirium, and so, in a very real sense, that was _exactly_ what he was doing. His own senses dulled by the ice-cold water, and somewhat less than half-conscious, at this point, himself, he had failed to take notice of the fact that her voice, and her movements against him, had real purpose and meaning now.

He didn't understand that the fever had broken; that the battle had been won. And so he persevered, repeating the same cycle of words over and over again; his desperate plea that she not leave him behind.

Drastic action was called for. How could she get through to him?

Then it came to her; simple, powerful, and unquestionably, instinctually right. Of course – it was so _obvious_. She could do it in the same way he'd gotten through to _her_ in… in _the Other Place_.

And she'd better get it right the first time, because she could feel both her strength and her lucidity failing her. She knew with calm certainty that she was going to slip back out of consciousness again in a moment – she didn't have much time.

She took a shaky breath and let her eyes fall shut in the moment before gathering herself to act; her cheek resting on his cold, damp chest… and gathered what strength she could from the sudden rush of memories that flowed like a river swiftly past her closed lids.

Gunther at fourteen, sprawled in the dirt of the training yard, glaring up at where she stood triumphantly above him; his eyes ablaze with resentment and something very near to hatred.

At sixteen, standing on the castle ramparts and shading his eyes with his hand, face inscrutable as he'd watched her and Dragon lift off for patrol… until a rogue gust of wind, completely unexpected, had very nearly knocked her right off Dragon's back. Glancing back again once she'd righted herself, she'd been shocked at the change in him. White as a sheet; his face, which had been so expressionless mere seconds before, a picture-perfect study in abject horror. Then it had been over, almost before it had begun – but she'd been left shaken to the core by what she'd seen in that instant. He hadn't spoken to her after that for a week.

Then the sight of him at nineteen, strolling through the town square arm in arm with a pretty girl on the evening of some early summer fair. Oh, with what furious determination she had tried to stomp down the ugly wave of envy that had threatened, in that moment, to overcome her. Then, in an instant, everything had changed. Gunther had caught sight of her through the crowd as she'd struggled to hold in the stinging tears that had wanted, so suddenly, to fall - tears she'd insisted to herself that she didn't even understand. Locking his gaze on hers, he had first rolled his eyes dramatically heavenward; then given a mighty and deliberately exaggerated yawn (his companion, completely engrossed in a ribbon-seller's bright wares, had never even noticed.) And just like that, everything had been right with the world again; she'd been able to pull a rude face at him, and then move on.

And Gunther a year ago, holding Rake and Pepper's baby for the first time, looking uncertain, a little bit frightened (as Pepper had laughingly reassured him that he was doing just fine) and oddly, amazedly tender all at once.

All this passed before her in a matter of seconds, and it gave her the reserves of strength and will that she needed. Her lips curved upward in the barest hint of a smile against his chest as she realized, _I loved him all that time - ALL that time back to the very beginning _- and then she was moving; locking her hands together behind his neck and using that grip for leverage against him; pulling herself up with single-minded determination until her face was even with his, so close their noses bumped as she rasped out, her voice shaking only a little bit, "Gunther… _Gunther_. Gunther Breech, I _love you_. I love you, and I need you to _open your eyes!_"

And she pressed her lips against his; briefly, but hard.

She felt the entire length of his body tense beneath her just a split second before his remarkable slate-colored eyes flew open, focusing on her in frank, astonished disbelief. Even sunken in a face as haggard and grey as his was at the moment, she found those eyes, this close up and unguarded, to be almost dizzyingly beautiful.

"Jane," he croaked. "Oh, my God." And then a second later, more loudly; "Oh my God, _JANE!_"

He bolted upright then; from the mostly reclining position he'd been in, his head resting against the lip of the tub, he sat up so suddenly and so fast that water sloshed everywhere and Jane, who lacked the coordination to right herself against him, very nearly slipped under the surface.

Then he had her, one arm darting around her waist, holding her to him and making her gasp – the welts there were still terribly fresh – the other hand slipping behind her head, fingers splayed in her damp, bedraggled curls, the bottommost tips of which were now floating in the water, holding her face close to his own

"Jane," he was whispering hoarsely, almost feverishly; "Jane, Jane, Jane, oh Jane."

She smiled again, or tried to; but she was shaking hard now. She'd used up everything she'd had in her bid to capture his attention and could no longer hold the shivering at bay. It was intensifying with every passing second.

Through teeth that were now rattling violently she managed, "Gunther, cuh… could we get ow-hout nuh… now? I think I nh… n-need to lie duh-hown."

She felt him bunch against her and then he was standing, water pouring off both of them as he shifted her in his arms, gathering her closer… and he was shouting but everything was sliding out of focus again and she couldn't make out for the life of her what it was that he was saying.

There were other voices now, too… the room's other occupants had awoken at last, it seemed; she even thought she heard Dragon's voice from the direction of her window. She felt herself being eased gently down onto her bed; it was as soft and familiar and welcoming as she could have hoped for, but she was still so cold, so _cold_…

Vaguely, distantly now, she felt both of Gunther's strong hands coming up to frame her face, the thumb of one stroking her cheek as the fingers of the other brushed her sopping hair off her forehead. The last thing she heard was his voice, murmuring her name again and telling her to hold on, they would have her warm in no time; even though his voice was shaking and she knew he had to be just as wretchedly, torturously cold as _she_ was…

Then she gave a great, shuddery sigh, and everything went dark again.


	18. Chapter 18

For a while, she seemed to float.

There were asleep times and awake times… and even the awake times had a dreamy, detached sort of quality to them. Sometimes it was light in her room upon these brief awakenings; sometimes it was guttering torchglow. Different faces hovered over her; different voices spoke her name; different hands, cool and gentle, raised her head to press a cup of water to her lips. Always, during these brief interludes of consciousness, what she was most aware of – and deeply grateful for – was the simple _warmth_ of her surroundings. Not feverishly hot; not achingly cold. Her bed was warm and soft and comfortable and… _home_. She was home!

It was miraculous.

When she'd been held captive in Edgar's camp, she had despaired of ever seeing home again. When she'd fallen on the battlefield, pierced by that blade, she'd _known_. It was over. She'd never see her room, her parents, her friends… that was all past, all done; swept away in a torrent of pain and blood. And the thing about it was, it had been okay. It had been okay because Gunther had been there with her and Dragon had been there with her, both safe and whole. She could have gone peacefully, with very few regrets. She almost _had_.

Until Gunther had called her back.

No, not called. Nothing even remotely as gentle as that. He had screamed. Harangued. Challenged. Begged. Insulted. _Dragged_ her back from the brink. And because he'd refused to give up on her, here she was.

Home. It was the most incredible gift… something she would never be able to thank him for enough, not if she thanked him twice a day, _every_ day, for the rest of her life.

So… where was he?

This was a problem. The only prickling negative in the drowsy sea of contentment that comprised her brief moments of wakefulness.

Because Gunther wasn't there.

His was always the first face she scanned for – the first voice she listened for. But he was _never_ there. Over, and over, and _over_ again she would try to rally herself to inquire about him – only to find that she lacked the strength even to whisper his name before the healing darkness once more overtook her.

She was becoming frantic. What if he had changed his mind? Decided that she hadn't been worth all that trouble after all? What if he'd become ill? They'd both been in that torturously cold water together, and he hadn't had the benefit of being lifted directly into a warm bed. What if, what if… there were a _million_ what ifs.

_Where was Gunther?_

OOOOO

It was midday the first time she truly awoke. Only her mother was there initially, embroidering quietly in a chair beside Jane's bed… but once Adeline ascertained that her daughter was actually awake – _really_ awake and cognizant of her surroundings, able to sit up (propped on copious pillows, of course) and converse, even to take a little of Pepper's broth – the overjoyed woman brought nearly the entire castle down on Jane.

Her father first, of course – then Sir Theodore, followed by Jester, Smithy, Pepper and Rake (Pepper held onto Rake's arm the entire time as though she _never_ intended to let him go again); even the princess and, briefly, the queen.

Yes, almost the entire castle… but still no Gunther.

She tried to hold her tongue, to wait it out, to trust that he would appear, even as she grew more anxious with every passing moment… but when her mother eventually announced, in her not-to-be-contradicted manner, that it was time for everyone to clear out and "let the girl have some rest" Jane could contain herself no longer.

"But… I need to see Gunther," she blurted out, surprised and dismayed in that moment by the sound of her own voice; the almost _pleading_ quality of her words. "I do not… I…" horrified, she realized that she was nearly on the verge of tears. "Can someone get him for me? Please?"

Everyone looked exquisitely uncomfortable. And her heart plummeted.

_What is it? WHAT is it they do not want to tell me?_

It was Jester who finally spoke, studiously avoiding eye contact with her as he did so.

"Well, Jane… the thing about that… erm… about Gunther, is… what I mean to say… it was for his own good, truly; I promise you. We, um… we did not want to, you understand. But he really left us no choice. We... drugged him, Jane."

Her jaw dropped. For a moment she just stared stupidly, paralyzed by shock. Then she managed to splutter out an incredulous, "_What!?_"

Now her mother reasserted control of the conversation. "It really was the best thing for him, Jane. The way he was carrying on… even once it was clear that you were recovering, he refused to leave your side. Would not even change out of his soaking wet clothes. Would not eat, would not rest… his devotion was touching, but – " Adeline paused, frowned – "it was doing you no earthly good, and doing _him _a great deal of harm. Something had to be done."

Pepper cleared her throat. When Jane looked toward her, the dark-haired girl dropped her gaze, appearing to suddenly find Jane's bedroom floor intensely interesting. "I was the one who did it, Jane," she confessed; Rake wrapped a supportive arm around her waist and pulled her hard against him. "I just offered him some…ah, _enhanced_ tea. He needed the rest; honestly, he did."

Pepper seemed on the verge of tears, convinced that Jane would be angry with her; in truth, though, Jane was absolutely _swamped_ with relief. None of the worst-case scenarios she'd imagined were true; Gunther was nearby, and essentially all right, though he might be having words with Pepper at some point, if he ever figured out exactly what had happened to him.

And with the relief came a wave of sleepiness; she'd only been awake an hour or so, but she was still weak and it had taken a toll on her. Her mother, sensing that Jane was fading again, shooed everyone from the room; and moments later Jane was lost to the waking world once more.


	19. Chapter 19

"Mooo..."

"Moooooooooo...."

"Jane… Jane? Jane, _moo!_"

The second time she truly woke it was dusk, and her room was empty... but a familiar large, green shape was at her window, nearly blocking out what little light was left in the sky.

"Dragon...?" She pushed herself onto her elbows and shook her hair out of her eyes, her grogginess evaporating like water. Though she still felt weak and more than a little light headed, though she still ached and stung in more places than she could count, though her back still screamed in protest at nearly every move she made, a delighted, almost _impish_ grin spread across her face at the sight of her dearest friend.

Dragon, for his part, looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be angry or ecstatic.

"You would think one of those shortlives, even just _one_ of them, would have thought to call for me when you were awake before," he groused, though clearly thrilled that she was conscious, and functional, again.

"I do not think it lasted very long," Jane replied, somewhat ruefully. "In fact, I am almost certain... no more than an hour, at any rate. There would not have been time to fetch you, unless you were right outside the window... in which case you would have known I was awake anyway and... and I am babbling. Oh, Dragon."

Carefully, she sat up straighter, biting her lip against the needle-like burst of pain that accompanied this action, then swept her blankets aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Jane, what are you doing?" Concern now colored Dragon's voice. "I think you are supposed to stay in bed."

"I think so too," Jane murmured, brow furrowing as her bare feet came in contact with the cold flagstone floor, "but please do not go all _Pepper _on me, Dragon. I do not intend to be out of bed for long... just enough time to give my best friend a hug."

"Jane, I am really not sure - "

She took a deep breath; stood; steadied herself against the footboard of her bed. Reached up to push a few stay curls out of her face. "If you disapprove, Greenlips, then I suggest you leave now. That is the only thing that will prevent me from doing this. I was so certain I would never see you again. I have to feel my arms around you. I _have_ to."

Dragon sighed explosively. "As if I could leave you now."

"Hah!" She flashed him another grin; wide in the gloom, if a little bit shaky. "You are nothing but a big softy!" And carefully, more than a little unsteadily, she put one foot in front of the other and crossed the short distance that separated them.

"I am not so sure," Dragon was grousing, as she reached the window, slipped to her knees and pressed her face to his warm cheek with a sigh, "that the invaders would quite agree with you about that. I believe I achieved quite the reputation as a fearsome bringer of death, in point of fact."

"Did you?" Jane murmured against him. "I am actually rather sorry to hear that, Dragon, because that is not who you really are."

"Only when I think I have lost _you_, Jane," he said, so quietly she nearly missed it. "Only when I think I have lost you."

OOOOO

It was impossible to say how long they stayed like that; time had no meaning for Jane as she knelt on the floor beside her window, her arms as far round Dragon as she could get them and the soft, overlarge nightgown her mother had procured for her (she would have been surprised to learn that it actually belonged to the queen) puddled out about her on the floor. She had the vaguest awareness that dusk had slipped away into something resembling true night, and that was all. In truth, she had actually begun to doze a little when her chamber door opened.

That brought her around with a start.

"Jane?" The voice was calm at first, but ratcheted up to panic unbelievably fast - presumably when its owner realized that she wasn't in her bed.

"JANE!!"

It was, of course, the voice of the one person she'd most wanted to see earlier in the day, and been unable to. The voice that had she would never forget -_ never_ forget - had pulled her back from death itself.

_Gunther._

Her eyes flew open, and she shot to her feet like an arrow - which, she realized immediately as the room lurched sideways beneath her feet, was not in fact a very good idea. At all.

He didn't give her time to fall, though. He was over her bed and there - _right there_ - before she'd done more than just sway on her feet. His arms closed round her just as her legs gave way, and they sank to their knees, both of them, together.

Behind her, Dragon muttered something highly questionable, in a mock-disgruntled voice, that included the words "smoke swappers" and "about damned time"... and then withdrew.

Jane barely noticed.

There was nothing in the world, in that moment, for her, but Gunther. Even so, it took her several heartbeats' worth of time to tune in what he was saying; she'd just been so fully immersed in the feel of his arms around her.

" – completely _insane_, or just stupid, Jane!? What in God's _name_ are you doing out of bed!?"

"I could ask you the same thing, you know," she shot back, pulling away slightly, though she kept both hands on his shoulders, fisted hard in the fabric of his shirt. Their eyes locked, green on gray, the moment breathtaking in its intensity. "I have it on very good authority that you have been making yourself sick over me, to no good purpose at all."

"No… no good purpose…" he seemed barely able to string the words together. "Jane. Oh my_ God_, Jane." He had caught her under the arms when she'd started to fall; now he moved his hands to clasp her shoulders just as she was clasping his. His fingers dug in almost painfully; he seemed to be restraining himself, with a concerted effort, from actually _shaking_ her.

"You… do you know… do you even understand…" his voice was rough; unsteady. "You were dying, Jane. You were not just hurt; you were not just sick. You were _dying!_ How was I supposed to act when you were _DYING!?_ It felt like you were taking me with you! If you died I _wanted_ to go with you. What was left for me here if I lost you, Jane, _what?_"

She opened her mouth, but no sound would come. She didn't know how to answer him. What would be left for _her_ if she lost Gunther? Nothing of consequence. Nothing at _all_. That was why she'd almost let that otherworldly wind take her; because Gunther had been dying, dying, _dying_ in her mind and she'd despaired of ever seeing him, safe and whole, again.

He lifted one hand now; framed the side of her face with it, his thumb stroking the ridge of her cheekbone gently, absently. "You are right," he said simply, "I did not want food. I did not want rest. I only wanted you. That's all I've wanted for… a long time, Jane."

Suddenly he looked away, the corners of his mouth wrenching violently down. He made a sound that seemed like an attempt at a laugh, but came out instead a poor choked, strangled thing. "A _really_ long time," he repeated, looking off into the corner of the room. "You would not believe how long if I told you."

"Gunther, I - "

His eyes snapped back to hers then, but something, she immediately saw, had shifted behind them; they were shuttered now; somehow shut off.

"You do not belong on the floor," he said abruptly, flatly. "You should be in bed."

"Gunther, wait!"

But he wasn't listening, not anymore. For whatever reason, possibly overwhelmed by the direction the conversation had begun to take, he had closed himself off from her. Jane gritted her teeth in frustration. She hated that he could do that - douse his emotions as quickly and decisively as dousing a torch - and she absolutely _loathed_ when he did it to her.

"Damn it, Gunther, we are not - "

But he was already standing, unfolding to his feet with the lithe grace that came from a lifetime of combat training, and pulling her up with him.

"_No!_" Back on her own two feet now, the pale green, embroidered night dress floating around her, she wrenched herself free of him only to plant both her fists on his chest a second later with a furious whack. "We are not done... done talk... talking... about..."

She trailed off. It was happening again; the floor pitching and twisting beneath her, the walls beginning to spin. She blinked, hard, trying to bring things back into focus, but to no avail.

She'd recovered a moment ago, after bolting upright when she'd heard Gunther's voice, but only because the two of them had more or less fallen into each other's arms. _This_ time... this time...

Everything was going hazy.

"Jane?" Suddenly there was worry in his voice again. It made her angrier than ever.

She shook her head stubbornly. "Do not patronize me, Gunther! If you think I am going to allow... allow you to just... whoa." She raised one hand slowly, almost dreamily; pressed her fingertips hard against her temple.

"Jane!" He tried to grab her, but she shoved him away again. She still had enough strength and coordination for _that_, at least... if only just.

"Why do you always do this!?" she demanded, wondering, even through the thick fog that was descending on her now, how things had gone so wrong so quickly. But then, that was the thing about Gunther, wasn't it? Nothing was _ever_ easy where he was concerned, nothing was ever... straightforward. "Just shut down!? Right when the con... conversation is..."

This was it, she was at the end of her ability to cope; both physically and emotionally. She met his eyes again, and had a fleeting thought of how... just _wrecked_ he looked in that moment; both older and younger than he was, both closed-off and vulnerable all at once. And much, _much_ too pale.

Then everything blurred to gray and she had just enough time to murmur "oh, hell," before she was falling sideways. The blur of motion she caught from the corner of her eye must have been Gunther lunging for her, but she never did feel whether he managed to catch her or not.

Things had gone well and truly dark by then.

OOOOO

(A/N: you didn't _really_ think it would be smooth sailing again so easily, did you? Not for _those two_? *evil grin*)


	20. Chapter 20

**Interlude: Gunther**

OOOOO

It was dusk when Gunther clattered into the castle courtyard at the head of a small, straggling column of mounted men. It had been three weeks since his disastrous conversation with Jane in her bedroom; since she'd collapsed in his arms and he'd laid her back on her bed, hardly able to discern whether he'd been more furious with her, or with himself.

He'd only seen her once since then, stopping at her chamber door the next morning and glancing in, to find her still asleep... or unconscious... whichever she had been. That afternoon he'd ridden out, along with a few dozen others, in a last push to seek out and capture, route, or kill whatever bedraggled remnants of Edgar's "army" might still be lurking within Kippernium's borders.

Some twenty days he had been gone - it felt like twenty _years_. As he reined up his steed and slid from the saddle, he was exhausted, sore, and chilled to the bone. All around him, other men were dismounting as well. The courtyard was full of shouted greetings and running feet as loved ones flung themselves at one another; a happy cacophony of noise. For his part, though, Gunther stood still a long moment, right where he was; leaning into his horse to steady himself, his forehead resting against the beast's strong, warm neck, his eyes closed.

_God_, he was tired.

But breathing in that warm, earthy, equine scent helped to steady and ground him.

It didn't do anything to drown out the sound of the name that had been beating in time to his pulse for the past twenty days, however.

_Jane. Jane. Jane._

He was about to see her again.

_My Jane._

OOOOO

When he raised his head again, scanning the courtyard, there she was. His breath hitched; caught in his throat. The face he'd seen every time he'd closed his eyes over the past many days and nights - hard and long and _grueling_ days and nights - was right there, large as life, and staring straight back at him. Her green gaze unflinching, unyielding.

He swallowed convulsively.

She appeared to have entered the courtyard at a dead run, though she'd skidded to a halt by the time his eyes fixed on her. She was in her dusty old practice clothes, sword stashed over her shoulder. She was breathing hard, one hand pressed absently to her side - it looked as if she might have gotten a stitch there. Though Gunther, eyes narrowing, couldn't help but jump immediately to more sinister conclusions. What if it were related to her injuries somehow? She had to be exacerbating them by even being out of bed - let _alone_ the fact that it looked like - good Lord, could she really have been _training? _Completely unacceptable - if Jane herself couldn't be counted on to act in her own best interests, _someone _around here should have been thinking clearly enough to step in. What about her parents, Pepper? He was going to read them _all_ the riot act.

Then she was crossing the courtyard toward him, moving slowly, deliberately. No frenzied rush like what was happening all around them; but there was no doubt where she was going, and she never broke eye contact with him. Her gaze was searching; intense. She was, he realized with a start, scanning him for signs of harm exactly as he was doing with _her_.

Her wild hair was bunched at the nape of her neck, but several flame-colored tendrils had escaped and were pasted to her forehead, cheeks and throat with sweat. He could tell that there were still large swaths of her body that were bandaged beneath her clothes. Her face was pale - _too_ pale underneath her smattering of freckles, and her eyes sported dark smudges - almost _rings_ - of fatigue. It didn't look as if she'd been sleeping any better than he had himself. And she looked thin. Thinner than usual, that was. Almost... gaunt.

It hit him, then, what she'd been doing - what she _must_ have been doing. Punishing herself for being unable to ride out with their little hunting party. Hating the fact that she wasn't recovering as quickly as she would have liked; hating _herself_, quite possibly, for what she likely considered to be weakness, that trait that Jane despised above all others.

Not eating, not sleeping, pushing herself to the brink of exhaustion with training exercises, too soon -_ far_ too soon - after she'd nearly... nearly...

How utterly in character for her. His hands clenched at his sides. In that moment he halfway wanted to crush her to him, halfway wanted to light into her and shake her until her teeth rattled.

Damned infuriating woman. God-be-_damned _infuriating _Jane_.

She stopped an arm's length away from him - raised a hand as if to touch his face - then let it fall back to her side. Mere inches separated them; mere inches, and an enormous, yawning chasm of words unspoken and emotions denied.

"You were leaning on your horse," she said at length. "Are you -" she broke off, swept him again from head to foot with her eyes, swallowed hard - "are you well?"

"Yes," he said, his voice more curt than he'd intended. "Just tired. And you?" Unbidden, un_wanted_, a powerful string of images blasted through his brain - the same images that had kept him lying awake on his bedroll for the past dozen nights even as his companions had slept deeply, worn out from riding and fighting, snoring around their fires.

No such reprieve for him. One after another the images had paraded across his consciousness, in torturous, inescapable clarity, just as they were doing now.

_The haunted look on Jane's face in the courtyard on that fateful morning as she'd demanded to know why, why was he acting like he cared _now,_ when it was too late?_

_Jane a bloodied wreck, holding onto the iron ring of Edgar's whipping post as if for dear life; the heart-ripping way in which he'd had to cajole her into letting it go._

_The expression that had flashed across her face when he'd asked her if Edgar had forced himself on her; it had been brief, little more than a flicker across her features - but unmistakable nevertheless._

_Jane as she'd clung onto his hand, lying face-down on that little cot in the alcove off the kitchen, fighting desperately to retain her hold on him, to keep him from leaving her in order to pursue his mission of revenge._

_Jane staggering into him on the battlefield; the shock and bewilderment he'd felt when he'd registered her presence there being swept away in the next instant, when her legs had buckled, by horror and panic such as he'd never known._

_Her eyes when he'd pulled her into his arms there on the muddy, churned-up ground while Dragon had stood guard over both of them; they'd been so huge and dark in her pale, bruised face - and so deeply, fundamentally _wrong_. Glassed over and... distant, somehow, as if she were halfway out of her body already._

_The barrage of emotions that had assaulted him in that moment; fury and grief and a maddening, white-hot thirst for vengeance - but more than anything else, simple fear. Fear with every beat of his heart. Fear, fear, fear, fear, fear._

_Jane as she'd thrashed and flailed in her delirium, half-shouting, half-sobbing the same frantic plea over and over again - Gunther, make him stop, make him _stop!

_And then, of course, the image of what he had _not_ seen, but could picture clearly enough nonetheless - could picture and had been picturing with obsessive, heart-breaking, gut-wrenching clarity over the past several days. Jane thrown to the ground, all of her frantic efforts to fight, to defend herself, going for naught as Edgar forced himself onto - _into _- her pinned and struggling body, stealing something from her that she could never get back._

All this he saw in an instant before he forced himself back into the present, forced himself to ask, around the sudden blockage in his throat, "are... you well recovered?"

"I am -" he caught the flicker of hesitation in her face and voice; someone else might have missed it, but he knew her well - "getting there."

God, he ached to pull her into his arms. Instead he said, "you might get there faster if you were to actually put down your sword and _rest_ a while."

"Yes, well," she took a step backward, "I appreciate your concern. I supposed I should go and... ah... greet Rake and Jester and Smithy as well."

"I think Rake might be... occupied," Gunther said, in a half-hearted attempt at brevity. Jane followed his gaze to where Rake and Pepper, a short distance away, were embracing each other so tightly that it looked as if they were trying to meld themselves into a single being. A trace of color tinged her cheeks.

Gunther was glad to see it. She'd been far too white.

"Oh... right," she said lamely. "Well, just Smithy and Jester then. I will -" her eyes locked back onto his for just the briefest instant, then darted away again - "see you later, Gunther. I... am glad you are well."

She turned and was lost almost immediately in the crowd.

"I love you, Jane," he whispered after her, heard by no one but himself.

OOOOO

(A/N: Yes, it's short, I know. RL has been interfering but I have not forgotten this story! :)


	21. Chapter 21

The next few days were quiet for Jane. Castle life returned slowly to its normal rhythm and pace and though daily patrols continued in search of any lingering remnants of the invading force, none were reported. A collective sigh of relief was breathed by one and all; it appeared that the danger had passed.

In comparison with her tense, emotionally fraught and largely _silent_ reunion with Gunther, Jane's reunions with her other friends were natural, unreserved and full of joy. She was deeply grateful that neither Smithy, nor Jester nor Rake had come to any harm while hunting the fugitives. And there'd been even more occasion for celebration the morning after the men returned, when Rake had stumbled into the kitchen in a happy daze and announced that Pepper had informed him he was shortly to be made a father, _again_. Spontaneous cries of joy and much happy back-slapping ensued.

Still, Jane was troubled by a number of things. One was her relationship with Dragon, which had suffered while Gunther and his men had been on the move. Due to his ability to cover large distances quickly, Dragon had flown out daily to locate the riding party and check on their progress and well-being, returning to the castle by dusk each evening with a report for the anxious loved ones who'd been left behind.

Friction had entered Jane's friendship with him because he would not consent to carry her with him, citing her need for rest and recovery. Daily Jane had pleaded with him to take her along, and daily he'd refused. As a result, an unprecedented chill had entered their relationship.

Then there was the physical pain that lingered on, the scars that striped her back that she knew she'd carry with her forever, and her body's absolute refusal to heal itself and return to its prior state of strength and fitness as quickly as she wanted it to, no matter _how_ hard trained or worked or pushed herself. She was in a constant state of frustration as a result.

And the recurring nightmares of Gunther's death - those had not abated when her fever had broken. No, they continued to plague her, sending her bolting from her sleep, shaking and gasping and biting down on the screams that wanted to rip free of her, on a nearly nightly basis. It had been two or_ three_ times a night while Gunther had been away, and was now down to only once - usually - and so she supposed she should be grateful for small favors. An improvement was an improvement. But still... her nights had become sheer torture.

And then, of course, there was Gunther himself.

If Jane's days were quiet and borderline normal now, they were also almost entirely Gunther-free.

Following their initial awkward greeting in the courtyard, she hadn't seen him at _all _for nearly two full days. She'd eventually discovered from Jester, who had an uncanny knack for knowing most of what was going on in the castle at any given time, that Gunther'd collapsed into bed almost immediately upon his return and had been sleeping ever _since_ - "like a dead man, Jane; I mean, I knew he liked his sleep, but honestly, I have never seen anything quite like it!"

_That_ offhand remark had led to an intense, somewhat _frantic _half-hour long interrogation session as to why, exactly, Jester thought that Gunther should be so much more exhausted than anyone else - had he been wounded in some way while they'd been gone, some injury that he was concealing somehow? No? Was Jester sure - absolutely _sure?_ Think hard!

All she'd been able to discover as a result was that Gunther had taken on far more night watches than anyone else, therefore sleeping quite a bit less - and that even when he _had_ been rolled in his blanket he had seemed restless; he'd tossed and turned constantly and at times even _talked_ in his sleep, shouting himself - and half the camp along _with_ him - awake on one particularly memorable night. However, no amount of coaxing, cajoling or even_ threatening_ could induce Jester to tell her what words Gunther had yelled out, apparently while in the throes of a nightmare all his own.

Eventually Jester'd managed to distract her for a moment by pointing out a cloud which he swore looked just like Dragon - and by the time she'd looked back around he was gone; not a single trace of him remaining except for the soft jingling of his bells - faint and getting fainter - as he beat a hasty retreat.

And the situation improved very little even after Gunther finally emerged from his room. It soon became apparent that he was avoiding Jane at practically all costs.

This fact, in turn, aroused the stubborn, defiant side of Jane's nature - (_Is that how he wants things to be? Fine then)_ - so that instead of seeking _him_ out and demanding that they talk through the situation once and for all, Jane simply turned his own tactic back on him. She didn't go out of her way to avoid him, per se, but she certainly left him well enough alone, and when their paths _did_ cross she studiously ignored him.

He _watched_ her, though - something that, under the circumstances, irked her to no end. She was particularly likely to catch him watching her as she worked through her training exercises in the courtyard.

What in the hell was he playing at! God! It was enough to drive anyone mad!

OOOOO

"Well, are you going to stand there all day, or do you want to spar?"

Jane had finally decided that she could tolerate his silent, brooding stare no longer. She threw her sword to the packed earth in frustration and whirled to face him full-on. She had caught him out of the corner of her eye a moment ago, standing in a patch of shadow, leaning back against the courtyard wall; the very picture of indolence as he watched her (and what else was new?) going through the motions of her training routine.

She was not going to ignore this behavior anymore. By God, she had had enough. Fists planted on her hips, breathing hard, color high, sticky with an all-over sheen of perspiration, she stood there in the sunlight and stared right back at him, anger snapping in her green eyes.

"Spar?" he echoed lazily, as if he'd never heard the word before - (he had not _once_ practiced with her since his return) - "Thank you, but no."

"Then _what!_" She flung her arms up and out to the sides, before letting them fall back against her body with a thwack - the gesture seemed to say, _Well?_

"What, Gunther, what the hell do you _WANT!_"

He shoved off the wall and walked a couple of steps toward her, but then stopped. It looked, for a second or two, as if something had been on the tip of his tongue; something important, something of substance. But whatever it was he might have been about to say, he bit it back, and the moment passed.

His expression smoothed into flawless unreadability again. He jerked his head once, hard, in the direction of the well.

"I was just thinking that you should take a break and get some water soon. You are not taking in enough fluids for the amount of exertion you are putting out. It is irresponsible, Jane - you will dehydrate."

For a fleeting moment she thought she might have sensed a trace of genuine concern lurking behind those words - but no. It was not possible - to think so would be to delude herself. He was just goading her as he _always_ had. She was having a _good_ practice session, she was really on her game today, and so he'd had to think hard, very hard, to come up with something, _anything_, to criticize.

_Same old Gunther. Just like when we were young. Nothing has changed. Nothing at all_.

And that thought was so painful that it nearly took her breath away. Because -

_Things _were_ different! They were, I KNOW they were!_

Gunther when he'd cut her down from the whipping post - his whole body trembling as he'd gathered her into his arms, the amazing gentleness of his hands belied by the utter, white-hot fury in his expression.

Gunther when he'd twined his fingers through hers as Pepper had worked at cleaning and bandaging her ravaged back; his presence beside her, so strong and steady, the only thing that had made that torture bearable.

Gunther pressing a kiss to her temple as he'd left her to ride into battle, his face set in grim lines of vengeance.

Gunther's eyes on the battlefield when he'd forced her to show him her wound - the depths of sheer terror she'd seen there, and the torment in his voice as he'd shouted down at her - _I suppose it never occurred to you to consider __whether _I _could so easily stand to lose YOU! _

And Gunther's voice in her mind, their connection so strong that he'd managed to reach her even in what she had come to think of as _the other place_, pulling her back from the brink of death itself - pulling her back with declarations of _love_.

_Did it not mean _anything?_ Anything at ALL?_

She had been so sure... so sure that the feelings she had recently discovered for _him_ - (no, wait, not discovered; more like, finally accepted and _acknowledged_) - had been mutual.

So sure. And yet... she must have been mistaken. She _must_ have been. Clearly. What else could explain the way he was acting _now?_

And dear _God_, but it hurt.

It hurt like fire.

Her vision suddenly blurry, she quickly bent to retrieve her sword.

"Look, Gunther, just -"

"Jane? Jane!"

Her mother's voice interrupted her. Glad for another reason to keep looking away from Gunther, Jane turned to find the Lady in Waiting hurrying toward her. The older woman was slightly out of breath.

"Jane, _there_ you are. Really, I suppose I should have known. You must come with me at once. The king is requesting an audience."

Jane's eyes widened in surprise. Cuthbert had finally recovered from his own wounds to the point where he was granting private audiences, though he had not yet made any official appearances since having been carried from the battlefield in little better condition than Jane.

Still, Jane had not been expecting a personal summons. Nor, truth be told, did she have any particular desire to speak with the king. At all.

_Beautiful. It is one thing after _another_ today._

But, one hardly said 'no' to such an invitation.

"Coming, mother," she sighed, and turned to put away her equipment and splash some water over her face - though, as Gunther was still there, she made a point of not drinking any. Despite the fact that she _was_ thirsty. Very much so.

"Oh, and you as well, Sir Gunther," Adeline added as Jane crossed the courtyard toward her. "What a happy coincidence to find the two of you together. I was all set to go in search of you in a minute."

Gunther's eyebrows shot up much as Jane's had, but he said nothing, merely falling into step with the two women in silence.

OOOOO

Jane had not seen Cuthbert since the morning he had assigned her what he'd called a mission of diplomacy. He was paler, thinner... and looked as if he had aged ten years in the past few weeks. There was a stillness and... a _gravity_ about him, that he had never possessed before. This experience had altered him, it seemed, as much as any of them.

She and Gunther each went down on one knee in front of him, moving in perfect, graceful sync with each other. She shot a lightning-quick, sideways glance in his direction, but his eyes were riveted on the floor in front of him, waiting to be acknowledged by the king before looking up.

Cuthbert, however, acknowledged Jane first.

"Jane." The young king cleared his throat, hesitated for a moment, then got straight to the point. "I owe you an apology."

Jane had to stifle a gasp. Whatever she'd been expecting, this was _not _it. Kings rarely if ever apologized, and _Cuthbert? _ The arrogant, headstrong pre-battle Cuthbert, at any rate - never in a million years.

Apparently the changes that had so lately been wrought in him went deeper even than Jane had imagined.

"I knew that I was endangering you," Cuthbert continued into the stunned silence, "and upon reflection... it is not a decision that I am proud of. Nor one that I would make again. I was apprised of your injuries and I am... grateful that you appear recovered." He cleared his throat again, obviously uncomfortable. "Are you able, and willing, to resume your knightly duties in full?"

"Yes, sire," she responded automatically, dazed by the direction this audience had taken.

"Good then. I am very glad to hear it. That is all. You may rise, Lady Jane."

As she did so, she saw Cuthbert shift his attention to Gunther.

"Sir Gunther, when last we spoke, you indicated a rather strong desire to... terminate your service to me."

The words hit Jane like a physical blow, drenching her in a sudden cold, sick fear. The scene Gunther had made when he'd discovered where she'd gone... Pepper had told her about it, but what with everything that had happened since, she had clean forgotten. Dear God, how could she have _forgotten?_ Jane had heard stories of knights being stripped of their titles, banished, _executed_ for lesser offenses! She found that she was suddenly, actually _shaking_ where she stood.

"However," Cuthbert went on, "your continued presence in my court suggests at least a possibility that you may have... reconsidered. And so, I need to know where you stand on this matter. If it remains your intention to leave, I will release you from your service to me forthwith, and with no ill feeling. In fact, I will recommend your courage, integrity and fortitude in battle to any neighboring monarch whose service you may wish to enter. If, however, you can be prevailed upon to stay... then I should be very glad of your continued presence here. So Gunther, what say you?"

Jane swallowed hard; her heart was hammering in her throat. She could not believe how lenient Cuthbert was being, how... _fair._ This day was full of surprises, and no mistake... but how would Gunther decide?

The answer to that question was not long in coming.

"Thank you, sire," Gunther said quietly. "I... spoke rashly on that occasion, and... and I am a knight of _this_ realm and wish to be a knight of none other. If you will allow me to remain in your service, then that is what I will do."

Jane literally sagged with relief - before catching herself and making a concerted effort to stand straight again.

"Very well," Cuthbert said, "then it is -"

"Except..." Gunther's voice was still quiet, but it carried nonetheless.

Cuthbert raised an eyebrow. "Except?"

"Except I would ask your majesty to grant me a... a leave of absence first. I feel... that it would best if I spend some time away from court. I would like the opportunity to travel abroad and... see something of the world. Visit some distant kin of mine, possibly make a -" he broke off; cleared _his_ throat (_it seems to be catching_, thought Jane) - "make myself... an appropriate match."

The sound that Jane made then was sort of a gasp in reverse; a sick little "huh" of forcibly expelled air, as if she'd just been kicked hard in the stomach. Cuthbert glanced in her direction.

Gunther did not.

He was still staring resolutely at the patch of floor directly in front of where he knelt. His jaw was clenched to the point where he almost looked to be in pain... but he looked determined as well.

"I... see," the young king said, looking again, quickly, between Gunther and Jane. Confusion was plain on his face. Given the way Gunther had behaved when he'd discovered the danger Jane had been sent into, Cuthbert was obviously as shocked by this drastic change of heart as Jane was herself.

"Well, I... must admit that I am surprised by this request," he said at length, "but I suppose that is a natural enough desire. How long of a leave do you... anticipate?"

"I... am not sure," Gunther said, as the room began to spin sickly around Jane. This could not be happening, could not be happening, _could not be happening_. "But I should think a year, at least."

Jane became aware that her breathing was getting erratic. Her breaths were beginning to pile up, one atop another; a pounding ache was building behind her temples, and the hot, prickling sensation of unshed tears was mounting behind her eyes.

She gulped in a single deep, frantic breath and then clamped down hard on the tears that wanted to come. Forced her breathing to even out; forced herself to remain tall, straight, silent and still. _I will not succumb to this. I will not show weakness. I will not betray any hint of pain. I will not, I will not, I will not_...

Gunther and Cuthbert's voices seemed very far away as they continued to speak. As if from a great distance, Jane heard the king grant permission to Gunther's request, and add that he could feel free to equip himself for his journey just as he saw fit - he would be allowed full access to the castle's storerooms, armory and stables.

Heard Gunther thank the king most graciously.

Heard Cuthbert bid Gunther rise, and then inquire, almost as an afterthought, as to when Gunther planned to depart.

Heard Gunther say,_ tomorrow_.

And, judging by the fresh glance Cuthbert threw in her direction, knew that she must have gasped again - though she had no conscious awareness of doing so.

Then there were others in the room, and conversation was ebbing and flowing all around her; it was if she were standing, frozen and numb, in the center of some mighty maelstrom - a gigantic vortex whose single, vicious purpose was to drag her under. To drown her.

_She would not let it_.

There were so many voices now; too many voices. It was becoming overwhelming and all she could do was just try to breathe steadily, _In - out. In - out_. Snippets of conversation were swirling all around her, random and disconnected, like bits of debris caught in a gale-force wind. She heard Cuthbert announcing Gunther's pending departure to those who had assembled, and then calling for a celebration - feasting and dancing, that very night, to mark the kingdom's return to peace and his own return to health. Also to acknowledge the fact that his mother and sister had returned home not for a simple visit but for _good_, and that he had decided, however belatedly, to allow for a regency after all. The queen would be taking control until Cuthbert's twentieth birthday. This announcement would be made publicly at the banquet... and oh yes, Gunther could be publicly wished well, and given the send-off he deserved too.

All of this was discussed as Jane stood there, silent and still as a statue, concentrating simply on regulating her breathing, not giving way to the tears that so desperately wanted to come, not simply collapsing into a heap on the stone floor. Then...

"Jane. _Jane?_" She shook her head, trying to clear it; blinked her eyes back into focus. It was Cuthbert, and he was addressing her directly again. Glancing around, she saw that the room was rapidly emptying out; Gunther was already gone.

"Yes, sire?" Her voice was hoarse; unsteady. Barely her own.

"I said that you may go, Jane." He was frowning at her, his expression puzzled once more. "It seems I may have been mistaken - you do not appear to be as fully recovered as I had previously thought. I am sorry to see it. Though you would be most welcome tonight, you need not attend the festivities if you do not feel up to it. Go and get some rest."

"Thank... you, sire," she managed to croak.

Later she would have no memory of leaving the audience chamber at all. All she was aware of in that moment was a horrible, churning sense of vertigo just like she'd had in the seconds before Gunther had cut her free of Edgar's whipping post; it felt as if she were falling, even though she knew that she was not.

OOOOO

_A/N: Oh, that goofy Gunther. What the _hell_ is going through his mind? Anyone care to hazard a guess at his motives?_


	22. Chapter 22

The sounds of music, voices and laughter floated up on the night air to where Jane sat alone, atop the castle's highest tower.

She had her back to the rampart, knees drawn up and chin resting on top of them, staring sightlessly across the tower-top at the star-strewn sky beyond. She'd been cold at first, but by now she just felt... numb. Not only physically, but on every level of her being.

Gunther was leaving.

_Gunther was LEAVING_.

Try as she might, she really couldn't wrap her mind around it; couldn't absorb it, couldn't even _begin_ to... accept it.

_Leaving. He is leaving_. She shook her head. That couldn't _really_ happen, could it? He wouldn't really _go...?_

_Would_ he?

The castle was his _home_, and _he_ was... was...

_The One. I thought he was the One_.

Well, she'd thought wrong. Obviously.

_God. I love him_. She was still reeling from the force of this revelation. She loved him and she'd thought - for just a while there, she'd really thought -

_We were close to something._

She was sure of it. She could still hear his voice echoing in her head, the words he'd spoken as he'd held her on her bedroom floor - _what was left for me here if I lost you, Jane, WHAT?_

They had been so close in that moment, right on the verge of really opening up to each other, she'd been sure of it, so sure.

_We were. I _know_ we were. We were close to... something GOOD._

And then everything had gone all to hell, so fast, so _fast_ -

Gunther had just... shut down.

So had she been imagining it after all? Reading more into his actions and words than had really been there? Seeing what she'd _wanted_ to see, instead of seeing the truth?

She must have been. He'd seemed sincere in that moment, but... but then he'd gone and shut himself off from her, just _completely_ stonewalled her, had barely spoken to her _since_, and now he was leaving, _leaving_...

Leaving to look for an _appropriate match_.

The first sob that ripped through her took her by surprise, because Jane was not normally a crying sort of girl and hadn't even fully recognized what was building up inside of her.

Half a minute later she was folded over herself with her face nearly pressed to the stone surface on which she sat, crying as she never had in her life; deep, gusty, wrenching sobs that were practically shaking her apart.

And there were many contributing factors to her sudden surrender to tears; the nightmare ordeal of Edgar's camp, the loss of Sir Ivon in the battle, the frustration of not recovering from her own wounds as quickly as she wanted, the unprecedented chill that had entered her relationship with Dragon due to his refusal to take her with him, when he'd flown out daily to check on Gunther and his men while Jane had been recovering... but mostly, mostly it was all down to Gunther.

_Leaving. Leaving. Leaving_.

She didn't even hear the footsteps ascending the tower steps - never registered his presence at all until she heard his voice, completely unexpected and alarmingly nearby.

"Jane? I thought I might find you up here; you always did - _Jane!_ What the _HELL -!_"

He took the last few steps two at a time and virtually hurled himself down beside her; her first real, immediate awareness of him came when he clasped her by the shoulders.

"Jane, what has _happened!_ What are -"

"_Gunther!_" Her head whipped up, revealing a flushed, tear-sticky face, and an expression of complete and utter horror at being found, like this, by him.

"Oh God," she half-choked, half-screamed, "Get _away _from me!"

She shoved him backward, hard; taken by surprise, he overbalanced and for a second or two was in very real danger of tumbling back down the steps he'd just come bolting _up_. in the mean time, Jane shot to her feet and scrambled backward away from him, putting as much distance between them as she possibly could within the confines of the tower-top. It wasn't until her back hit the rampart opposite that she stopped, and her legs gave out, spilling her to her knees.

There, pressed up against the stone wall as far from him as she could get, she dropped her face into her hands, fighting desperately for composure. struggling to rein in her tears. She met with very limited success. She managed, through sheer force of will, to choke off the sobs; but found that as a result, her breathing now began to pile up; coming so short and shallow, so frantic and erratic, that it felt as if she were getting no air at _all_.

"Jane." Gunther was staying over by the stairs now, giving her some space. "Jane, _look_ at me."

She shook her head without raising it, and the world seemed to spin. Lack of oxygen was making her dizzy.

"Damn it, Jane, will you tell me what is going _on!_"

"I do not... want to talk... about it, Gunther," she gasped out, still not looking at him. "Should not you be at the ball anyway?"

"I have never in my life," said Gunther with flat emphasis, "felt less like dancing."

Jane struggled for a deeper breath, gulping and swallowing air as if it were water. "Then surely you have preparations to make for your _journey_."

She virtually spat the word. She wouldn't have thought, a moment ago, that her grief at his impeding departure could possibly have gotten any stronger - and yet with him actually _here_, just a few scant feet away from her, it was suddenly a hundred times worse.

How much kinder it would have been if she could just have avoided him until he left... as she'd been _trying_ to do. Why, _why _had he had to come find her? Stupid Gunther, complicating everything, always, _always_.

"I _am_ preparing for my journey," Gunther said softly. "I did not want to leave without..." he trailed off for a moment; sighed. "I wanted to say goodbye, Jane."

"Well, maybe I do _not!_ _Go_ if you are going; get out of here! I have nothing to say to you at _all_, Gunther, and I came up here to be _alone!_"

"You are certainly not making this easy." His voice was so quiet this time that Jane barely caught the words; he might have been speaking to himself. Then she heard him stand - but instead of starting back down the steps, in the next instant he was crossing toward her with a quick, determined stride.

"You have got to be freezing," he said, as she finally raised her face again, in plain disbelief that he would stay, that he would actually _approach_ her, even after she'd made it perfectly clear that she wanted nothing more to do with him. "Here, take this."

He'd been unclasping his cloak as he walked and now dropped it across her shoulders; the warm, heavy weight of it settling down around her so naturally, just as if it truly belonged there. It felt so good; such a relief, so blessedly warm - which only served to make her angrier than ever. She tried to shrug it off, but then Gunther was down on one knee, now, in front of her; grabbing her by the shoulders and holding on, keeping the cloak in place. "Jane, stop. _Please_ stop. Jane! Will you just _listen_ to me -"

"_I do not want to listen to you!_" She was on the verge of hysterics. "I listened to you before, I _believed_ you, I came _back _for you!" Oh God, it was all coming out and she'd never meant to tell him this, never, _never_, but the floodgates were open now and God help her, she couldn't _stop_ herself.

Gunther was staring at her in sheer perplexity. "Jane, what are you -"

"I was halfway there!" she cried. "I could see it ahead of me, I could see the light! And it was so _bright_, Gunther, and warm, and... welcoming... and I just wanted to be in that light, I wanted it so _badly_, I knew it meant rest and I was tired, I was so _tired_ and everything _hurt _and... and... and then I heard _you_."

A sick comprehension was dawning across his face. He'd known that he had come close to losing her, but he'd never fully realized - never _allowed_ himself to fully realize - just _how_ close.

"You told me that... you _loved_ me..." she literally choked on the word, both of her hands now fisted in the coppery hair at her temples in an unconscious gesture of distress nearly beyond endurance. "And suddenly that seemed more important than the light, or the warmth, or the promise of rest and so I came _back_, and I had to_ fight, _Gunther; you would not _believe_ how hard I had to fight to get back because it had already started and it did not want to let me go -" a horrified shudder ripped through him at those words and he gripped her harder - "but I... I..." she trailed off and shook her head. Silence descended for a moment, except for their harsh, jagged breathing.

"And it was all a _lie!_" she half-screamed, half-sobbed, wrenching herself free of him at last. "It must have been, right? It cannot have been the truth because you are _leaving!_ And I just... do not understand... why you would lie to me about something like that, why you would call _me_ back, only to leave yourself... why... Gunther, _WHY?"_

"Jane... I..." he was virtually speechless.

"And it took... took me so long... to _realize_ -" (she'd said this much, she might as well say it all, even though by now she'd started crying again, making it more difficult than ever to force the words out) - "I never even... _understood_ that I... that I... was _yours_ until Edgar, he... oh God, Gunther, it was meant for you! It was always meant for you and I only realized it after... after..."

"Jane. Oh, Jane." His voice was wounded; it sounded as if he were in actual, physical pain.

"And you were all... I thought about... that whole... day long, you... were my lifeline, how I kept myself strong and... _sane_ and I... I... I am sorry, Gunther, so sorry, I let him take what was yours, but Pepper... he said if I did not, he would go after Pepper... instead... and... and..."

"Oh my... _God_, Jane." The words sounded wrenched out of him as if by force, and with good reason. Gunther was reeling. What Jane had just revealed to him - that Edgar had actually forced her cooperation by threatening her friend - this was worse than anything he'd even imagined. And _she_ was apologizing to _him_ - still apologizing, in fact, with her face now buried in her knees, words muffled to near incoherency, but there was _one _he could make out clearly enough - "sorry... sorry... so, so sorry!"

This was torture. This was _shredding _him.

"Jane, stop - Jane, Jane, oh God _please_, Jane, please _stop_."

She'd shoved him away a moment ago and he didn't know what kind of reaction he'd get now, but it hardly mattered anymore; he needed to be holding her, needed it like he'd never needed anything before, needed it like he needed food, and light, and the feel of his sword in his hand; needed it like he needed to _breathe_.

"Jane," he croaked again, and then he was leaning forward, gathering her into his arms, and she resisted for a moment, stiffening against him, but he was having none of it and a second later she simply collapsed into him, burying her face in his chest and weeping like a child.

Without any real conscious awareness of what he was doing, he rocked her back and forth, one arm wrapped tightly round her waist, holding her to him, the other hand stroking through her tangled mass of fiery hair. "Shhh," he was murmuring over and over again, "shhh, Jane, shhh."


	23. Chapter 23

Jane's tears had been a long time in coming, and so it took a long time for them to run their course.

Gunther held her through it all, until the sobs gave way to sheer exhaustion, finally abating to hiccups and ragged, hitching little breaths. She pulled away from him then and he let her; she sat upright for only a second or two, then slumped back against the stone wall, eyes closed.

A hectic, splotchy flush was spread out along the tops of her cheeks, tendrils of flame-colored hair pasted to her tear-sticky face. Gunther reached out with a hand that shook slightly, and brushed the errant curls back and away. She dragged in a deep, shuddery breath at the contact, and her hand shot up, catching his and holding it pressed against her too-warm cheek.

"I am so sorry," she whispered hoarsely, not opening her eyes. "I do not, I... should not have... you have a trip to prepare for; you should be packing, or... resting... you certainly did not need to be... to be... subjected to _this_..."

"I am not going anywhere." Gunther's voice was quiet, but emphatic.

_That_ was when Jane's eyes flew open. They stared at each other in silence for a long, spiraling moment - then she shook her head; a tired, unhappy gesture.

"Do not _dare_ stay here out of pity for me. That is the worst thing you could possibly do, the worst thing in the world."

Gunther's eyes narrowed, his jawline hardening. "Do not dare imply that pity is all I _feel_ for you. That is the worst thing you could possibly do to _me_."

Jane gave a small chuff of laughter; it was an uncharacteristically bitter, jaded little sound. "If not pity, then what? _What_, Gunther?"

Now it was his turn to shake his head. A small, somewhat rueful smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "You make nothing easy, Jane, you know that? Nothing." He inhaled deeply; it was clear that he was bracing himself. The expression on his face said that what he was about to do would be difficult; almost painful. But he never looked away from her eyes - not this time.

"_JaneIloveyou_."

The words ran together, seeming to be expelled by force. Yes, he'd spoken those words in his mind a thousand, thousand times. And yes, he'd whispered them aloud - when there'd been no chance of her actually hearing them. And yes, he'd even said them directly _to _her before, as he'd held her struggling, scorching body in the ice bath, out of his _mind_ with fear that every harsh, gasping breath she drew in would be her last. But he'd never spoken them face-to-face before; not with Jane staring back at him, her astonishingly green eyes widening at their import.

"I love you so much," he continued, making himself slow down and speak clearly through an act of sheer will, "that it scares me to death."

"But... then -" she was still holding his hand against the side of her tearstained face - "Gunther, why were you going to _leave?_"

At this, all traces of smile - rueful or otherwise - vanished completely from his face. His lips wrenched violently downward, his expression becoming a study in anger, pain and self-recrimination.

"God, Jane, is it not _obvious!_" He yanked his hand away from her, breaking their connection. "Think about what you just told me, everything that happened to you, I -"

"You do not want me anymore because... of what he did?"

Her words were quiet - she barely more than breathed them. Still, they halted Gunther mid-sentence and caused his jaw, for a heartbeat's worth of time, to actually drop.

Then his eyes were blazing grey fire. A heartbeat later he had her by the shoulders again and now he _was_ shaking her. He really was.

"Do not _ever_ think that! Ever, Jane! _EVER!_ I was leaving because I am not worthy of you! I did not protect you - I failed you over, and over, and _over again!_ And do not give me that line about how you can take care of yourself," he added, when her eyes flashed and her jaw set - "it is not that you needed my protection as a woman, it is that you _deserved_ it as my fellow _knight!_ We are supposed to have one another's backs - always. _Always! _ It has been drilled into us since we were _children!_ And I - _Damn_ it, Jane, I let you down. I just... and when I think about the price _you_ had to pay for _my_ failure... God, it makes me sick. It makes me _sick_ with myself." He broke off; shook his head once, hard. Shot abruptly to his feet and paced to the opposite end of the tower-top, then back again. Raked a hand through his hair; then folded his arms across his chest, leaned sideways against the rampart, and tipped his head back, toward the sky. Looking at what? Jane couldn't tell.

When he spoke again, still staring resolutely upward, his voice was hoarse. "You deserve so much more, so much better, than me. _That _is why I was leaving, Jane."

Slowly, she unfolded herself to her feet and crossed to where he was. Wrapped her arms around him from behind, letting her head fall to his shoulder with a gentle thud.

"But Gunther," she said, her lips moving against the fabric of his shirt, "you are all I _want_."

"So you said." He sighed. "And so, I stay. I still think you are doing yourself a disservice, Jane, but... if by leaving I would hurt you, then I will stay. For as long as you want me, I will stay."

"Thank you," she whispered, becoming aware that she was soaking his shirt with yet more tears - they were slow and silent now, but still coming. "Thank you, Gunther."

"For what?" he asked, a bitter edge to his voice. "You are selling yourself short."

"How about you let me decide that for myself?" she said, disengaging from him to stand upright once more. "Do you think you could do that?"

He turned around to face her. "Yes, I can do that," he said, his dark grey eyes boring into hers, "but only because I am such a selfish bastard that I will let you make a poor decision if it means I can stay near you."

"Gunther, you are too hard on yourself -"

"No. I am not." He reached out a hand and framed the side of her face, his fingers tangling in her hair and his thumb lightly tracing the shape of her cheekbone. "Jane, tell me something. Is there..." he trailed off for a second; seemed to be struggling for composure. Although Jane didn't know it, he was about to give voice to a question that had been tormenting him, day and night, for weeks. He was having difficulty finding the right words.

"Is there... do you... was there any..." he raked his other hand through his hair again; a distracted, agitated gesture.

"Gunther, what -?"

"Is there any chance at all that you could be with child?"

When he finally forced the words out, his voice was brittle; it sounded as if something inside him was dangerously close to breaking. And Jane simply stared at him. And stared.

And stared.

Finally, she stammered out, "what... on earth are you -"

"Because it would not matter to me if you were," he said quickly. Then frowned. "No, wait. Hell. That did not sound right at all. Of course it would _matter_, but -"

"Gunther -"

"- But it would not change anything, that is what I meant to say. I would -"

"_Gunther_ -"

"- Give the child my name, and we could -"

"_Gunther! Stop!_"

He did stop, at last, breathing hard, staring at her with haunted eyes, seeming to fully expect her next words to confirm his worst fears.

"Gunther, what - why would you -" now _she_ was the one who was finding it hard to string a coherent sentence together. She stopped and shook her head. Tried again.

"Look, I _admit_ that my knowledge in this area is limited and... entirely secondhand, but I was under the distinct impression that... that there was more involved in creating... _babies_ than -"

"Than _what?_" All of a sudden, Gunther seemed to be virtually... _crackling_ with intensity. A wild, impossible hope had just kindled inside of him but he was stomping down on it, hard, unwilling to let himself believe.

"Jane, what did he do, _exactly? Tell_ me." And then a second later, more quietly, "_please_."

"He, um... kissed me..." she winced at the memory of it, and Gunther winced too, as if he'd been struck a blow. "It was _vile_, he..." she lapsed into silence for a moment and swiped one hand hard across her face, scrubbing away her tears almost angrily.

"All right. He kissed you." Gunther's voice still had that odd, brittle quality. Despite that tiny, rogue flicker of hope that was clinging to life deep inside of him, he was clearly bracing himself to hear something devastating. "Then what? I have... I have to know."

Jane's brow furrowed. "Then, nothing. Well, nothing that would result in a _child_ -"

"Not possible," Gunther's voice was flat with hatred. "I _saw_ the way that piece of filth looked at you, at the banquet that night. He would not have stopped at a kiss. Did you black out? Could it -"

"_No_, I did not _black out!_" Jane cut across him, temper starting to flare, swiping away more tears as she spoke. "I did not faint away like some helpless beribboned maiden, if that is what you are implying, and no, he would _not_ have stopped on his own, you are right about that, but he _did_ stop because I _kneed_ him."

"You... you _WHAT?_"

"I _kneed_ him. Right where it hurts a man the most. My arms were bound but not my legs and when... when he... I did not think, there was no time, I just... _acted_. I... I had done it before I even realized that I _planned_ to do it, and then he was on the ground, and his men held me until he got up again and he -" she swallowed thickly - "he hit me, hard, so hard I could not breathe and then he ordered me whipped and... and he probably did have further plans for me but then _you _were there, you and Dragon, and... and -" her eyes widened then, full understanding finally clicking into place; she looked completely aghast in that moment - "and dear God, Gunther, surely you did not think...?"

But of course the expression on his face told her _exactly_ what he'd thought.

"You _did_," she breathed. "Gunther, no, oh my God, _no_ -"

And then she was cut off as he let go with what could only be described as a _whoop_ - and a mighty one at that - and a heartbeat later he was crushing her to him, with such force that her feet came off the ground, with such force that she could scarcely _breathe_.

So she did what came naturally. She wrapped her arms around him and held him back, feeling as she did that he was shaking, hard, every bit of him, from head to foot. She twined her fingers in the dark hair that just barely grazed his collar, loving the heat of him, the strength, the vibrancy, the way his heart was thudding in his chest, pressed so close against her own - fast, it was beating so fast.

In that moment, her terrible nightmare of losing him - of watching him slip to his knees, of watching the light behind those grey eyes slowly flicker out, seemed far, far away. And though she did not know it at the time, this moment marked the beginning of the end for that awful, recurring dream. It would steadily decline in frequency until it became nothing more than a vague, unhappy memory.

Then he was pushing her gently but firmly back; holding her at arm's length, just staring at her with an expression of dazed happiness and... wonderment? Yes, it _did _look like wonderment - wonderment bordering on outright awe.

"You kneed him," he said, and his tone was marveling. "Incredible. My incredible Jane. _God,_ I love you." He reached up then, to frame her face with both his hands. Warm, rough, calloused, combat-hardened hands - how she loved them in that moment; loved _all_ of him, every inch.

"Jane," he murmured then, his eyes burning into hers, his voice so hoarse it was nearly unrecognizable, "if I were to kiss you right now, you would not knee _me_, would you?"

There was a spark of humor, of laughter in his expression as he spoke; but beyond that, further down, there was also a flicker of deep uncertainty that she found amazingly endearing. How could he still doubt, even now?

"Gunther..." she brought her own hands up to catch _his _face, all scratchy stubble under her palms, mirroring the way he was holding _hers_ with almost perfect accuracy.

"Yes?"

"I believe I may knee you if you do _not_."

"God forbid," he said, and then his lips were crashing down on hers and for a long time there was no more talking.

OOOOO

(A/N: well you guys have been so patient I figured I'd _finally_ make with the happy ending - even though I know you were all hoping for a really tragic, frustrating ending where Gunther rides away and they both spend the rest of their lives pining for one another in silent, miserable desperation... haha, not! Short epilogue to follow in a couple of days, then fic will be complete! :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Epilogue**

OOOOO

"I still wish I had been the one to find him on the field of battle." Gunther's voice was quiet; meditative. Gravelly and rough around the edges with drowsiness. Jane _felt _his words more than heard them, because she was lying curled into him, with her head resting on his chest. They were still atop the tower, with Gunther's cloak now spread like a blanket over both of them. "I suppose," he continued, "that I will wish that forever."

Jane, who had been on the point of drifting off to sleep herself, thought of her recurring nightmare and had to suppress a shudder. "Do not wish for that," she said. "It will not change anything, so what is the point of wasting energy on it? He is dead - that is what matters."

"I know, but -"

"But nothing. Leave it, Gunther - I _mean_ it."

He sighed. "Only because it is you who asks."

She smiled, her lips curving against the fabric of his shirt.

"Does this mean that now you will do _whatever _I ask?"

"Huh. Perhaps. If you keep kissing me like that."

"Then you can start by sparring with me again. If you let yourself get anymore out of practice, beating you will not be a challenge any longer... and where is the fun in that?"

"Is that _so!_" Gunther's voice was still sleep-husky, but colored now with high amusement. "You talk very large, my lady knight. But we will see in the morning; and the sweetest kiss in all the world will not entice me to let you win.

"It is fortunate, then," Jane responded archly, "that I have no need of such favors, Gunther Breech! I will _beat _you fair and square."

"Really. Well, time will tell."

Jane snorted mightily, but gave up pursuing that particular line of conversation.

"So what happens next?" she asked, letting her eyes fall shut and just breathing in the scent of him.

He was stroking her hair, slowly, lightly, absently.

"Well, I think you should make amends with Dragon, for one thing. We spoke the other day, he and I, and he is pretty... ripped up about this falling out you two have had. He was only looking out for you, Jane. You are not stupid - you know perfectly well that you were in no condition to spend several hours a day in the air. You could hardly stay upright - what if you had fallen from his back? Think what that would have done to him - think what it would have done to _me_."

It was Jane's turn to sigh. "I know. I _know_. All right, I will seek him out tomorrow - right after I am done knocking you flat on your - _hey!_"

He had wrapped a curl of her fiery hair around his finger and given it a sharp little tweak.

"Oh, very mature, Gunther," she groused. He laughed and again she felt more than heard it. They lapsed into contented silence once more and this time Jane _did_ doze off for a while... until the first, faint pink streaks of dawn began to lighten the horizon.

Then her head came up with a start.

"Maggots! Can we really have been here all night! If my mother realizes we have both been unaccounted for..."

She scrambled to her feet and Gunther got up after her, more slowly, yawning. "If your mother realizes," he echoed, "then _what?_"

"Are you insane! You _know_ the conclusion that she - that _everyone_ - will reach! She will... she will..." Jane seemed at a loss for words to describe the magnitude of calamity that would have to follow.

Gunther closed the distance between them with a single stride and reached out, catching her face between his hands again, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. "She will insist that I make an honest woman out of you?" he asked, and that odd expression of humor-battling-uncertainty was back, luring just beneath the surface of his face. "Would that really be so terrible, Jane?"

"No, it... of course not, I..." she was completely flustered now, staring into those eyes the color of sharpened steel. She stopped. Took a deep breath. Thought a moment. Came to a positively stunning realization.

"Well... well, _no_, it... I suppose it could be... could be... _amazing_, actually," she said slowly, feeling the force of the words as she spoke them. But then she stopped; frowned. "As long as..."

Gunther's brows drew together too, mirroring her troubled expression. "As long as...?" he prompted.

"As long as... we would both still be knights, right? We would both still be... equals?"

"Equals? No. Not equals - never. Jane, we are not equals even _now_."

She gasped and tried to wrench herself away from him, but he had anticipated it and held on, pulling her even closer, both his hands going now to hold her by the shoulders. "Jane, look at me. You are, and always have been, by _far_ my superior in nearly every way." He quirked a half-smile, watching her face as his words sank in. "It is all right, though," he said then; "it was hard for me when I was younger, but I forgave you a long time ago."

"Gunther -"

"Do not. The more you protest what I just said, the more you prove my point. Now. How about that sparring session you promised me last night? Ready to be taken down a peg or two, my over-confident lady?"

A bright wave of color suffused her face. "By _you_, Gunther Breech? I think not!" Disengaging from him, she turned toward the steps with a determined air. "Come on, then, if -"

"Jane, wait."

Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that he hadn't moved.

"The castle will already be stirring," he said quietly. "You know how early Pepper and Rake rise, and Sir Theodore too, not to _mention_ your mother. If we go down together, and are seen... then conclusions will be reached like you said, and there will be only one way forward. And under those circumstances, things will happen _fast_. So if you are... not entirely prepared for all of that just yet, you had better go on alone. I will wait here for a while and meet you in the courtyard in... twenty minutes, perhaps?"

Jane turned slowly back to face him, then stood perfectly still for a long moment, head cocked ever so slightly to the side, contemplating. It was a life-altering decision she had in front of her. When she made it, though, she made it with certainty; no hesitation, no second thoughts. She crossed back over to where he stood.

"Gunther, you are my match in every way," she said simply, and the look in her green eyes was very nearly fierce. "I am through with denying it - to myself, to you, or to anyone _else_. We go down together."

She extended her hand to him; he took it. Then pulled her in for another nearly desperate, earth-shattering kiss, fusing and locking them until they _had_ to break apart, for air. Still, they stood there for a long moment, pressed into each other; eyes shut, foreheads touching, hair mingling, breathing hard.

"I love you, Jane," he whispered hoarsely, and she didn't think she'd ever get tired of hearing it, not if he said it fifty times a day for the rest of their lives.

"Come on," she murmured. "I am ready. So ready." She found his hand again, twining her fingers tightly through his.

And they descended the steps together, in the pale but strengthening light of the new day.

OOOOO

**THE**

OOOOO

**END**

OOOOO


End file.
